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Poetry Magnum Opus

Air Lady (revised)


dedalus
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You go you lovely lonely lady

walking in your socks

two dry martinis at cock crow

and then the whole world rocks

 

you shaved your gorgeous locks

you use no makeup on your face

of all your feminine tricks

today there is no trace

 

white on white is the room you pace

panther-like, absurdly happy

the world calls on your intercom

say what you want but make it snappy!

 

The female dasein is soft and sappy:

you could see that, young, obscure.

I'll make this damn world pay for me

of that you can be sure.

 

 

II.

 

Men! Their sickly syrup of desire

was never made for wedded bliss:

geisha. heitari, grand courtesans

from early days taught you this.

 

Now there is the yawning abyss

to conjure with, Monsieur or Madame Death,

here in a white room, with a white poodle,

disconnected, alone, a single breath

 

away from life's perfection.

A living male erection

from time to time is required:

one call can do it all.

 

One puts on a wig, applies lipstick, eye-shadow,

revels in a garter-belt, sheer sexy stockings

and in half an hour it's all over.

No money ever changes hands,

no names, never never the same young man,

so very discreet, so professional,

so very satisfactory! The porter,

some man called Jim or John or Alfonso

(as if I care) handles everything

beautifully, the groceries are always on time,

and his large Christmas tip is assured.

 

Been living here for the last ten years

safely cocooned on the 45th floor.

A Luftmenschin, I shall never come down.

Why should I any more?

---------------------------------------------------

 

Luftmensch (pre-Nazi Yiddish: an air-person, someone who has no visible means of support). In this case it has a very different New York sort of meaning. There are people who literally don't come down to street level from their high-level apartments for weeks and months at a time.

Edited by dedalus

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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Very wise writing. Always careful with outspoken details and references. If this poem was mixed in many others, I would guess that this one is written by Bren. Nice job.

 

Aleksandra

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth - Jean Cocteau

History of Macedonia

 

 

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Hi Brendan, How do you know all this stuff? I have always been a fan of your lyrical style of writing, but the content never ceases to amaze me, you often take me into worlds I have not even imagined. This is one of those.

Thanks again for the education.

 

The imagery is almost shocking in its impact throughout the poem, But these lines especially stood out for me, nothing shocking here, just turth delivered in a unique way, which is what poetry is.

 

Now there is the yawning abyss

to conjure with, Monsieur or Madame Death,

here in a white room, with a white poodle,

disconnected, alone, a single breath

 

away from life's perfection.

 

~~Tink

~~ © ~~ Poems by Judi Van Gorder ~~

For permission to use this work you can write to Tinker1111@icloud.com

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