The Unknown Fop

In the passage o’er of years
our Charles a certain style’s acquired-
remarks to same in him produce
a poignant shame,
a shuffle-stepped bashfulness
and mope where once was ease,
a long-legged lope.

For Charlie
(seeming) hours spent,
snug in a wobbly rack
of second-hand coats,
(his mum a-near, a-shopping)
where he a simplest child-comfort sought
and found in a wool wove shroud -
(an aromatic anti-moth
cloud emitting)-
a pseudo-womb with him,
on the wild, wide wing
of naphthelene dreams, within.

A workless Friday eve
four decades since,
in lieu of the over-ordinary
brown-bagged bottle response to
iniquities and inner inquietude,
caffeine crazed Charlie
seeks hot chocolate
cafe-terrace haven-

on his unobtrusive entrance
some sassy gal exeunt stage right quips,
" It's been ages since we've seen
someone nattily attired 'round here."

His unprepared innards cringe,
a knit-browed frown
consumes his smile,
a rush of aged echoes ensues-

(those with which he must
nightly come to grips)

brotherly injunctions
against conspicous consumption,
his fathers gnawing accusation that
he'd oft and unthinkingly sacrificed
the substantial for the soft, egoic
inclination toward superficiality and
the miserly macro-economics of style.

Charlies hefts his eyes from off
his beat-down wing tip shoes,
and
"Naught to win
or lose with echoes"

thinks-

then, still a bit abashed,
gingerly grins and winks,
says " Why, thank you, Dear."

A Certain Suggestion

Chubby Charlie
( who’d like to lank
Don Quixote be)
winces, chews,
chews and winces,
sips and blinks,
lets drop to pub’s floor
peanut shells-

“ Once betroth’d,
abus’d or loved unwell
twice terrified, methinks.

Some of late suggest I buy a bride.
From Thailand, P.I., Timbuktu?
The method, true, s’been ages tried,
that simple much can’t be denied.

Hell, it’s to kneel
at Dulcinea’s foot,
to nuzzle her naive nape
I’ve fought these countless weeks,
these years of moons
(though flailed and failed)-
as such, the thought above
offends me much,
to such miserly ends
I’ll not be brought!”

Thus, our Charles-
or more precise,
the wound agape
in 'is distraught
and pole-axed pride
awakes and rends
and snarls and speaks.

It's Coming On Christmas

Attempting always to address
some keen unnerving need
Charlie kneels
knowing his luckless lunges
over awkward interior obstacles
must continue come waters high
or devilish delays,
genuflects ingenously
and t’rows dem bones.

May as well attempt
to indemnify the dust or
legislate immunity for all
who bend to clownish lusts
each winter spring summer fall
thinks Charlie
while wildly wishing
for naturals and losing lousy wages
to shady street-sages
among the alley-blight
behind the 7-11
come Friday night.

Once was precocious courage fluid
where now a clotted porridge
of bad gambling and easy excuses
clogs the artless arteries of
an also-ran on a bender,
nor king nor prince nor true contender.

For all that feeble failure
sighing Charlie,
weathered but unwithered,
bangs down a few beers
in the weak light
of his cramped quarters,
forgets his lonely loins long enough
to summon the elusive Muse
to his over-waxy ears,
press the gnawed nub of a #2
to a ripped and wrinkled scrap
from his linty pockets salvaged
and in a crabbed cursive scrawl,
almost youthfully bold,

“ Please, God,
spare this sinner
who cannot bear to see
but one good, gentle girl
beneath your clean
baptismal snow go cold.”

Naturaleza Muerta

" Insisto.
Ahora.
No resistes.
Persisto, persisto."

Así la voz de adentro
de Charlie Chimuelo.

Casi no duerme,
así no descansa
lamiendo/probando
la fuente de todas canciones
de to' milagritos en
to' los rincones oscuros.

Su lengua- así­ lo pertuba,
así­ lo tortura
ni anastesia ni amnesia
bendicen a nuestro
pobre chingado payaso.

Tras de sus ojos - palabras rebotando-
cánticos frenéticos,
románticos, patéticos...

Charlie contempla
la Luna creciente,
un momento/instante
silen/deli-cioso-
mas un suspiro
y ya ella menguante.

Susurra ahora Don Charlie Chimuelo...

"¿Puede ser una lengua
de to' los colores pa' pintar
un versito de risas/bellezas,
to' los sabores/amores/dolores?"

A Kingdom for a Kilt

Wobbling stinking

'long the lane

coughing

Charlie felt his glib heart go lank.

Pubs were fun enough-
decent grub,
a snug and amber whiskey warm,
something to do
with throat and eyes,
well worn wood and,
most nights, music,
folk in fettle fine

(and otherwise)-

in that,
of course,
was much to thank.

'Twas the thought throng
on the road home alone
that jigged and droned
through Charlie's pickled noodle.

An echo
of those so strange waves
which washed 'round him
whilst sidled sat he
on elbow perched,
wiped cleanly
anything approaching smug
from his unshaven asymmetric mug,
as over cool-wet cobbles
he scuffed and lurched.

Women had kept him,
always,
chiefly crazed,
a state of too constant titillation
while remained he
mournfully
without a steady muse,
a condition of amazed frustration
not without comedic hues.

Often he'd silently recite
a wimpish, waking-dream flirt-

" Come closer, sassy lass.

Come, be a goodly wench,
offer me a dram to drink-

and give those lovely jugs a jiggle!

Swing that simple skirt
and from that thrilling throat
let loose a girlish giggle!

Lash me, lash me, love,
with waggish winks til
my poor, parboiled brain can't think..."

Such mordant,
dismal internal drivel
oft ended with an abrupt,
dismissive snort or belch
that hadn't properties of squelch.

For clownish Charlie
could not rightly play
the self-righteous rogue.
Such bawdy boldness
seemed false as hell,
a crock, a scam,
a mountebank's wordly shell,
a sham 'round a long held
peasant-pious, pleasant dream
that his simple bed
could really blessed be.

See,
the bigger part
of our chum's heart-

(a vault of yen
with mandarin runes etched)

though almost
atheistic brung up
remained quite hung-up
on the near-fetched
dear idea of sanctity

in union.

Masticator

Has to everyone
once simple synthesis
come unpure,
udone?

Singing oversung?

Its kernel containing
some irksome taint?

A gnostic mosh-pit
in the gray matter's mound,
a senseless addiction
to the confounding
and potent arrangement
of syllabic sounds?

On such stuff chewing
Charlie crippled the civil citizens
of his mumbly mouth
(long predisposed to rot)
and having quick forgotten
where his unshy smile fell out
he flashes an unwinning,
oddly closed-mouth grin
to the decrepit pilings
of the perished pier
near the abandoned beach he trods.

Slyly eyeing the moon
above the churlish surf
achieves our Charles
a much relieving
unsudden access,
an untapped resevoir of mirth,
decides right then and there
to an ode compose-

to the summ'ry 'membrance
of an ex's round, tanned calf,

declares he'd give
all his meagre gold
(or half)
to do it passing well.

Thinking thus
claims he achieved
the breaking day
and ope-throated,
all pagan pious,
a good ol' ruckus raises-

an ancient practice-

madness kept,
with healthy howls,
at bay.

Drink and Dial Charlie Style*

Many things are good to pray to!
A temple's built with what you've got!
(sweat,cum, menses, grit and snot)

Pray to what is there and true,
to passing oe'r, beyond and through,
to muscles, tendons, hair and bone,
to flower shadows on a stone,
to thunder, clods, milkstool and bier,
to oak, pine, maple, ash and spruce,
to fresh cut fruits that bleed their juice,
to tremors exigent of the flesh,
to kiss, caress, entwine, ensmesh.

Enough of rhyme, this much is clear,
I bleed my heart to touch your ear.

*Wrong number - 3:37 A.M.)

Urinal Thoughts

Wearily watching dream dregs
from puked up guts clog the shithouse chutes
a jaded giggling grabs his flabby frame
and, chuckling, Charlie smokily croaks
"O! but these fat cloaked abs
and mushy glutes want work!”

Such the silly quips of this quixotic gent
who, certainly unbowed, but- yeah, sure- bent
decides he’s seen way worse...
with a subtle thud leans his hamm’ring head
against the cool white graffittoed tiles
imagining Flanders fields, that woeful waste-
life running away in steaming red runnels,
the dead and blasted bodies in the mud.

A myoclonic jerk yanks him thankfully
from such a bunch of moribund imageries
and his guitar neck neglecting too soft paw
rises to his unsinging throat,
a lame mock in the cracked mirror,
a too noire note to pretend-apply the noose...

Exiting disgruntled with his decrepitude
Charlie resolves himself to an ambitious dose
of sculpting calisthenics and yoga poses,
his oer’stressed joints and cockeyed chakras to loose.