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Literature Text
La Dame Aux Aces- The Lady of Aces-
So rumored every bar and casino.
She frequented these places,
Her mind recalled a hundred faces,
But none held meaning,
And none of their words gave up wisdom worth gleaning.
She might be Helen, but where was her Troy?
Apparently, life's contract made no mention,
And her Paris never arrived with the best of intention.
Life's callousness made her existence a sort of toy.
La Dame Aux Aces- she dealt her aces like a master,
And I wouldn't put it past her,
If she tossed the dice twice,
Cheating life the way life cheated her in all its sordid vice.
Gamble, gamble, another dollar might snare ten,
Or Luck is not a lady, he might be cruel as men.
I hope she is luck herself- she needs it.
Heart-hammering, throat dry, where does it land?
On ten? On twenty? Please let it be black on five-
Just enough bills to see through this night alive.
Some earn their bread from toil,
Other by breaking soil,
But others break off their souls
So they can pay life's greedy tolls.
The dice are really victims tossed down
A gauntlet of cards- who goes out on the town?
"Let me buy a drink"-"No, thanks, I'm fine."
Men's breath reek of cheap beer and cheaper lies-
She wriggles to escape out of that smoke-choked confine.
Nowhere belonging, society won't grant her decent ties-
So she wanders on winnings and wallows in losses.
A quarter for a song to chase the blues, or for a shot to numb?
A budget isn't hard if you're not too dumb.
The streets are not as cold- but only when empty.
Catcalls from base bastards kill the soul all the quicker,
Much more than brawls over bad liquor.
"Hey, gorgeous!" they call- but would they launch ships for her?
Would they pay tribute to a single woman- just her?
The streets are fine when dead-
You might find your soul- or clear your head.
The billboards meld into mosaics of our age,
Paying homage to the "truth" we now stage-
Money, money, and profits gained-buy and buy more.
Never mind the rent's due and the landlord knocks on your door.
The windows on the east side reveal
Families simple but their joy's real-
Not found in glasses or tables of green felt,
She might cry, but she knows that means her heart would melt.
Can't afford that-she lost that warmth like she loses every night.
Morning brings sorrow, and night begets grief.
Each day she vows to turn over a new leaf.
But that hope is brief.
Her hope lies in wit,
And not the faithless arms of a charming man.
She knows the naive will get hit,
Eventually, so she beats the band,
And gains the upper hand.
How does she live?
She simply does-
After all, she's La Dame Aux Aces-
I hope she goes places.
So rumored every bar and casino.
She frequented these places,
Her mind recalled a hundred faces,
But none held meaning,
And none of their words gave up wisdom worth gleaning.
She might be Helen, but where was her Troy?
Apparently, life's contract made no mention,
And her Paris never arrived with the best of intention.
Life's callousness made her existence a sort of toy.
La Dame Aux Aces- she dealt her aces like a master,
And I wouldn't put it past her,
If she tossed the dice twice,
Cheating life the way life cheated her in all its sordid vice.
Gamble, gamble, another dollar might snare ten,
Or Luck is not a lady, he might be cruel as men.
I hope she is luck herself- she needs it.
Heart-hammering, throat dry, where does it land?
On ten? On twenty? Please let it be black on five-
Just enough bills to see through this night alive.
Some earn their bread from toil,
Other by breaking soil,
But others break off their souls
So they can pay life's greedy tolls.
The dice are really victims tossed down
A gauntlet of cards- who goes out on the town?
"Let me buy a drink"-"No, thanks, I'm fine."
Men's breath reek of cheap beer and cheaper lies-
She wriggles to escape out of that smoke-choked confine.
Nowhere belonging, society won't grant her decent ties-
So she wanders on winnings and wallows in losses.
A quarter for a song to chase the blues, or for a shot to numb?
A budget isn't hard if you're not too dumb.
The streets are not as cold- but only when empty.
Catcalls from base bastards kill the soul all the quicker,
Much more than brawls over bad liquor.
"Hey, gorgeous!" they call- but would they launch ships for her?
Would they pay tribute to a single woman- just her?
The streets are fine when dead-
You might find your soul- or clear your head.
The billboards meld into mosaics of our age,
Paying homage to the "truth" we now stage-
Money, money, and profits gained-buy and buy more.
Never mind the rent's due and the landlord knocks on your door.
The windows on the east side reveal
Families simple but their joy's real-
Not found in glasses or tables of green felt,
She might cry, but she knows that means her heart would melt.
Can't afford that-she lost that warmth like she loses every night.
Morning brings sorrow, and night begets grief.
Each day she vows to turn over a new leaf.
But that hope is brief.
Her hope lies in wit,
And not the faithless arms of a charming man.
She knows the naive will get hit,
Eventually, so she beats the band,
And gains the upper hand.
How does she live?
She simply does-
After all, she's La Dame Aux Aces-
I hope she goes places.
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Poetry is a fluid art form. It cannot be assessed on the same set of merits its stricter cousin, Prose, is judged by. Poetry evolves and adapts to our transient world.
While I consider my style as more aligned with the Neo-Romantic Movement, there is something resonant about the urban tone of Noir-type poetry- of which I have turned my attention towards.
Recently, Cowboy Bebop has struck an indelible impression on me- its bleak realism and naturalism of tone, plot and setting evoke a stark sense of Noir and the general pessimism of an decaying urban society. Yet despite the decay, there always remains those key remnants of hidden beauty and concealed joys life offers to the living who seek or examine carefully to appreciate them.
Continuing in this current vein of Noir-type poetry (as aforementioned, an infusion of Yeats in tone, Jazz serenade in syntax), here is a poem dedicated to anyone, particularly women of all ages and backgrounds who are jaded from life.
Consider this a sort of homage to the character Faye Valentine. I imagine this qualifies as a companion piece to the previous poem, "Where Were You, Tom LeFrey?"
Poetry is a fluid art form. It cannot be assessed on the same set of merits its stricter cousin, Prose, is judged by. Poetry evolves and adapts to our transient world.
While I consider my style as more aligned with the Neo-Romantic Movement, there is something resonant about the urban tone of Noir-type poetry- of which I have turned my attention towards.
Recently, Cowboy Bebop has struck an indelible impression on me- its bleak realism and naturalism of tone, plot and setting evoke a stark sense of Noir and the general pessimism of an decaying urban society. Yet despite the decay, there always remains those key remnants of hidden beauty and concealed joys life offers to the living who seek or examine carefully to appreciate them.
Continuing in this current vein of Noir-type poetry (as aforementioned, an infusion of Yeats in tone, Jazz serenade in syntax), here is a poem dedicated to anyone, particularly women of all ages and backgrounds who are jaded from life.
Consider this a sort of homage to the character Faye Valentine. I imagine this qualifies as a companion piece to the previous poem, "Where Were You, Tom LeFrey?"
© 2014 - 2024 Tete-DePunk
Comments6
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This poem is deep. It exposes the empty world of gambling (whether in a casino or with life) and shows that no true happiness comes from that. It's amazing, truly 