This Is Not a Poem

Frugal Oedipal complexity of life in 1945
When young men masturbated at carnivals,
And women with hair below their bathing suits
Sat in towers at the beach made of dried crustaceans
And bits of glass and discarded hot dogs in wax paper,
And old Chinese men practiced fingernail clipping
On the bamboo turnstile of revolving flatulence.
Last August night in beantown,
Chipped teeth in porcelain sinks
And menacing pencil thin moustaches
Collided with dead wasps on the windowsill.
Gazing forlornly at telephone wires,
Bricks, and chain link fences,
Split pea soup poured in my ear,
Warm, tingly, velvety liquid
Running down the outside of the thigh,
Neon labias in tungsten hips.
Last years excesses spill out onto the shag rug,
Goblets clatter; an early warning sign for disappointment.
The night the lights were frozen
And my head popped like a light bulb,
Idiots ran through the streets with placards,
Playing jaw harps and singing old army drinking songs
At three o'clock when ghosts ooze from taxi cabs
And free rides can be had by all.
Your ship has departed,
Bound for foreign sales offices and fax machines,
Humming in the velvet Elvis dawn.
Anchovies slither down hallways
Attacking the teacher and nipping up girls' dresses.
Fumes of turpentine and bacon fat
Waft from the lavatory; in the stalls,
The sacrifice of last semester's tie,
The class ring with the picture of our beloved clown
And Ringo's nose in a small jewelry box.
Embalmed and shrunken penises in display cases,
The best young men youth had to offer
Their country, right or wrong.

David Aronson