sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
My ash blonde hair has disappeared,
leaving a freckled scalp in its stead.
Two black bags bulge beneath my eyes,
All rheumy and rimmed with red.
They say sagacity is recompense.
(I’d settle for a dollop of common sense).
Hey, little lady, could you spare me a smile?
(Or at least a wink instead of a wince?)
No, when it comes to wisdom,
I’m an old lecher banging on a drum,
cruising the boulevards looking for love
in the suburban sprawl of Byzantium.
Playing the fool, the pantaloon,
howling for hours at the hollow moon,
waking in the morning with a broke down head,
knowing that never will be all too soon.
Old friend, Willy B, sing me a song
that will drown out the barbarous gong
of the death knell clanging in my brain
you, the king of love gone wrong.
4 thoughts on “Corky Cain, Washed Up Surfer, Sings of Dead End Hedonism”
Get ‘em Rusty!
Just trying to fill the empty days of retirement with rhythm. We need to get together, mon.
All the hipsters have beards these days.
It’s de riguer, as the French say.