Afternoon Nip With The Boss

I sat down with Hemmingway
bottle of pop
bottle of scotch
American rye

I wrote a balad, he tore it up
handed me
French wine
in an enamel cup

War leaves limbs hanging
that’s a metaphor
the clay mud clinging
wine is better from a tin cup

If there was a candle burning
I didn’t see it
I felt it though and
the rancid smell of hot wax

I found this rough, hewn tree stump
and a soldiers blood
melded with the mud
O’ honour isn’t brave

Regret is braver than a running horse
the coloured horse
I clambered on his war-torn back
braver was the thought (I now know)

I sat down in earnest
a widow’s dowry
a night out on the tiles
inspiration comes so slowly

I wrote my life in verse
it did not amount to much
reached out for St Jerome’s touch
held a Picasso favoured brush

Ellegy and allegory join the story
try to rob a soldier’s honest tale
injest a private’s morning glory
tantamount to grieving

Lifeblood and stirring passion
the partizan and the cause
her dark eyes
bodies left dead on the gauze

We talked until 3 twas
too dark to see clearly
my eyelids growing weary
so I dressed it up with butter

The lifeblood draining
looking for a morning star
and Hemmingway caught up
the afternoon had sworn

Mutiny in the French quarter
his fist clenched
he shouted at me
be a man, you klutz

The streets of shame
fights break out
in the early morning light
I’m tight like a street bum

The partizans are coming
real men with blood
and Hemmingway is shimmering
like gold covered in mud

Can’t write, don’t write
If you do make sure its you
not the devil’s daughter
not what does not matter

No matter what
what, does not matter!
only feelings make us human
only thoughts and life and feeling

© edenbraytoday 15.02.2021