Spoken of with facetious proclivities is our man Jack. They’ve said
he’s descended from lords and Czars or empirical mathematics.
“I am not all about the violence sordid, but the artistic
destruction need be recorded.”
So said our man Jack.
Our man Jack sat and brooded, as we danced and cavorted. What he
wanted: change for the train, fare from the city. What he got: us
speaking to him with facetious proclivity.
“Beware of atheists!” someone shouted. “And men driving large
trucks.”
He sat and stared, our man Jack, as we linguistically danced, made
poor attempts at romance, sat as if in a trance, but his smile grew
and lingers, to this day it does malinger. But I do digress, we were
such a mess, all full of festive glee, slight and amusing hypocrisy,
for our man Jack, who’d been so hard done by, oh so hard done by.
Listen man or woman, listen to the cry, the cries of all those been
done hard by. They gnash their teeth in the streets of Kensington as
all the whores go by, proffering their wares as we and Jack do sit by
and by, laugh and stare at whores proffering their wares. And those
gnashing pull out empty pockets and pull out their hair. We watch the
whores and we do compare, some among us haggling for an honest fare.
We order a pitcher of sleep. We’ve all been running and have sunk
too deep, are in too deep with bookies, mobs, those who keep the keys,
to our residences, our hearts, and dreams so far so we are not
allowed even to sleep.
Our man Jack, he sits now, now leans back, smiles that smile and
whiles it all away. His brain is lost away and at play behind the
curtains of his drooping eyes, which are lovely but for that stye in
the eye of our hurricane of pleasant loud and laughing hearts,
underpinning the sigh in the tremendous eye of our despair we hide so
well unlike our man Jack who is now becoming involved in a well
manifested attack. Oh Jack we love you when you bend your tender
heart to well meaning and irrefutable attack. He is our man Jack and
when it strikes him he bends all will and logic to his hand so that
none may stand and makes his magnificent attack against us, all our
fake bravery, false modesty and joking camaraderie. We lap it up and
know the truth, we are the uncouth and we love it, we so love it.
But our man Jack he does relax when we grow him a whiskey tree. With
one sip his solemnity does slip we do see and he just sits as out on
the street one of our number does meet a sister of mercy ~ wearing
fishnets. Violence and a slap in the face as the band does take its
place.
“There are islands out there where humanity does fare, better than
this city, it is so shitty sometimes here,” pipes in Ryana, chief
bassist, his voice fair and clear for all and one to hear, which we
do, but pretend not to.
“He got his hand caught in a rope, no rope-a-dope, but switch turn
an’ vicious.”
“Blade in the back, shiv turn counter attack.”
Watch our man Jack, as he sips from his whiskey tree happy as a flag
at half mast at some ceremony. And there I sat, enveloped in black,
as the merry conversation overtook me, overwrought me, bent and shook
me. Pretty parties sallied by, past me and our man Jack smiling
against the grain, who somehow gives me strength, stops up the pain,
and don’t wanna cry no more. No, don’t wanna cry no more.
Ambulance wagon arrives for the one who was shived in the thigh. Not
his back after all, still can hear his muted sob-cry. All the
ruffians scatter as if it at all matters, an’ even our man Jack,
he’s disappeared. ‘Tis then I get the fear. Eyes agog. See what’s
next through a film of fog. Outside are the non-entities. Inside
where all is silence. I am a malcontent, do feel maleficent.
Our man Jack shouting from the throng: “Cybele was there. She’s
at the bar talking communist. She said to say you are the grist and
chaff she sometimes gets caught in her teeth!”
That is when all mayhem broke loose. Blind-sided punch in the face to
some hero’s disgrace. Once again, all mayhem broke loose. Our man
Jack riding some hero on the back and smashing his pint on his skull.
The whore that my friend had decided to order, shrieking such
blasphemies, defending her order, scratching some punter a different
face. Our man Jack he started to dance as bottles and knives are
thrown and the first exhibition of the new show violence did make
with its vehement kiss. Jack in such bliss, inflicting non-partisan
violence with the flick of the wrist.
Away and escape my way of attack and of Jack the last I did see,
waving his arms and eyes full of glee, diving head first and into the
spree. His smile dear friends will never go away.
Our man Jack, spoken of with facetious proclivities. His smile grew
and lingers, to this day it does malinger…
By Daniel Smallegange, copyright 2006, all rights reserved.
Picture of the author, circa 2006ish?
