Beguine

What the shit,
let’s get it and cut some rug, Gate!
I want music and words,
not bellyshirted teens
who can’t sing a lick,
airbrushed Lolitas extruded
from machines;
What the fuck kind of spinner is this
that don’t got no Begin the Beguine?
I want growling groaning saxes
moaning moon songs;
sounds that soar
from open sewers and sores;
the sighs of spurned suitors nursing wounds,
the riffs and trills of suicidal curses;
I wanna hear the saliva and grit
from the bottom of a bottle of Night Train;
I want the blues of a mug
chugged down to the foam;
of the last damn penny
in the pocket;
the sound of talkin’ and knockin down trash
on the long walk home

c. 2001, 2008 Evan Gilling

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