3 poems by Patrick Dunagan
***
Mystery at the Black Dahlia
It's a holiday all-nighter out at the club
General Pop won't have any gossip
his table turns out women like revolvers
spun slant & silly, no worries.
The dance floor is a mass of seizure,
moods have no faith, home is so lonely
these not tears bury another night out.
The women drink wine & gamble
a husband is worth a thousand looks
every brunette goes blonde, it's fiery
so much elastic goes to waste.
Hardly, these gals are working hard
staying late to make a match, drop
the man behind the mask, it's images
this club of worlds within words trusts.
You have to stay guarded, arms up
pulling your heart along behind the relations
built up only to be undercut. From these
passive acts go forth the songs of joy
a nothing loss love will never conquer.
The abuse of a pause has consequences
only distance lovers ever appreciate
failing to catch the requisite count
of fawned limbs and glowing eyes
soaked in the pleasure of first encounters.
Nobody's dead, or at least not quite.
Do they understand then the moment lips
match lips garbs the instant of existence?
I doubt it. They move in familiar circles
watching not to misstep or fall out
everybody's favorite play is to play along.
It's another of those nights without answer
fascinating & repelling as only human vices allow.
***
***
Like Television
Loose-limbed & Ginger stroll across the galactic shore
all shimmers aside, let's give them some room.
A dozen notes blow through a back door
cat calls for mid-Western types hunched in gloom.
If ever there was a time to end these sessions
Bob deserves the right to have it rest here.
Without worry over serendipitous screenings
no one bothers others, others no longer care.
They'll tell you it takes timing to get everything right
not everybody's perfect but reasonably skilled attendants
understand too much runs while not enough loses the light.
On hat stands out of place umbrellas hang resilient
the mood's relaxed ballerinas prep jazz bunnies for the show.
Ominous familiarity appears out of fashion among the crowd
showering the pavement outside, wait blistering every brow
yet never is doubt voiced or gloom given out loud.
***
***
Randall Jarrell
Natalie Portman is my crutch in this poem
of truths I've nothing to hide.
Every "I've never heard that name" line
like television background noise
another story of full circle success at a young age.
Competing with the movies is difficult
living with a woman in love with herself.
Committed to the words "I love flesh"
into the Real I fold up the screen
following her down the street
as the cars pass and the agony begins.
***
Mystery at the Black Dahlia
It's a holiday all-nighter out at the club
General Pop won't have any gossip
his table turns out women like revolvers
spun slant & silly, no worries.
The dance floor is a mass of seizure,
moods have no faith, home is so lonely
these not tears bury another night out.
The women drink wine & gamble
a husband is worth a thousand looks
every brunette goes blonde, it's fiery
so much elastic goes to waste.
Hardly, these gals are working hard
staying late to make a match, drop
the man behind the mask, it's images
this club of worlds within words trusts.
You have to stay guarded, arms up
pulling your heart along behind the relations
built up only to be undercut. From these
passive acts go forth the songs of joy
a nothing loss love will never conquer.
The abuse of a pause has consequences
only distance lovers ever appreciate
failing to catch the requisite count
of fawned limbs and glowing eyes
soaked in the pleasure of first encounters.
Nobody's dead, or at least not quite.
Do they understand then the moment lips
match lips garbs the instant of existence?
I doubt it. They move in familiar circles
watching not to misstep or fall out
everybody's favorite play is to play along.
It's another of those nights without answer
fascinating & repelling as only human vices allow.
***
***
Like Television
Loose-limbed & Ginger stroll across the galactic shore
all shimmers aside, let's give them some room.
A dozen notes blow through a back door
cat calls for mid-Western types hunched in gloom.
If ever there was a time to end these sessions
Bob deserves the right to have it rest here.
Without worry over serendipitous screenings
no one bothers others, others no longer care.
They'll tell you it takes timing to get everything right
not everybody's perfect but reasonably skilled attendants
understand too much runs while not enough loses the light.
On hat stands out of place umbrellas hang resilient
the mood's relaxed ballerinas prep jazz bunnies for the show.
Ominous familiarity appears out of fashion among the crowd
showering the pavement outside, wait blistering every brow
yet never is doubt voiced or gloom given out loud.
***
***
Randall Jarrell
Natalie Portman is my crutch in this poem
of truths I've nothing to hide.
Every "I've never heard that name" line
like television background noise
another story of full circle success at a young age.
Competing with the movies is difficult
living with a woman in love with herself.
Committed to the words "I love flesh"
into the Real I fold up the screen
following her down the street
as the cars pass and the agony begins.
***
posted by *&* at 2:07 PM
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