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Literature Text
Where were you, Tom LeFrey?
I wonder if you saw the light of another day.
Did you wander down to the bay and sat on the quay,
Waiting for her return and your waiting be paid?
Were you weary, Tom LeFrey?
I saw the world was a heavy burden on your mind,
And you never told me if you found what you sought to find.
You chain-smoked like Perdition knocked on your door,
And you glanced at the clock every hour,
As though some strange power,
Might spirit your dried-up soul away,
You'd think that Raven was croaking "Nevermore".
The Past, you told me, is a back-breaking load,
And though your shoe soles
Were scuffed and riddled with holes,
You murmured, "This damned road,
Still has some miles for me to go before I'm done."
You finished and cocked your gun.
You jaunted down like a man facing the gallows defiantly,
Like a vagabond overcoming Want triumphantly,
And you mused these neon lights were the ghosts
Of contented souls watching the city sleep,
And that the smoke choking the air were the hosts,
Greeting a new era where time didn't keep.
The trash-strewn alleys peaked a charm,
And you mentioned the loiters on the corners could disarm,
Any miser lucky enough to venture down here-
You claimed the world right here was always clear.
The mucky puddles filled in the streets' pockmarks glittered,
Like the jeweler's, and everything ugly here wasn't always embittered.
So you stepped in one puddle to divide a lit moon into a hundred stars,
And said you'd call me whenever they found water on Mars.
You left.
I still recall the smell of steel and flash on your cocked gun,
And damn, this town was surely bereft,
When they said you were finally done.
Where were you, Tom LeFrey?
I wonder if you saw the light of another day?
I wonder if you saw the light of another day.
Did you wander down to the bay and sat on the quay,
Waiting for her return and your waiting be paid?
Were you weary, Tom LeFrey?
I saw the world was a heavy burden on your mind,
And you never told me if you found what you sought to find.
You chain-smoked like Perdition knocked on your door,
And you glanced at the clock every hour,
As though some strange power,
Might spirit your dried-up soul away,
You'd think that Raven was croaking "Nevermore".
The Past, you told me, is a back-breaking load,
And though your shoe soles
Were scuffed and riddled with holes,
You murmured, "This damned road,
Still has some miles for me to go before I'm done."
You finished and cocked your gun.
You jaunted down like a man facing the gallows defiantly,
Like a vagabond overcoming Want triumphantly,
And you mused these neon lights were the ghosts
Of contented souls watching the city sleep,
And that the smoke choking the air were the hosts,
Greeting a new era where time didn't keep.
The trash-strewn alleys peaked a charm,
And you mentioned the loiters on the corners could disarm,
Any miser lucky enough to venture down here-
You claimed the world right here was always clear.
The mucky puddles filled in the streets' pockmarks glittered,
Like the jeweler's, and everything ugly here wasn't always embittered.
So you stepped in one puddle to divide a lit moon into a hundred stars,
And said you'd call me whenever they found water on Mars.
You left.
I still recall the smell of steel and flash on your cocked gun,
And damn, this town was surely bereft,
When they said you were finally done.
Where were you, Tom LeFrey?
I wonder if you saw the light of another day?
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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.
I imagine this poem could be an allusion to Spike Spiegel, or any other soul who find themselves in a bind.
Yes, I should think this poem's Tom LeFrey could be a Spike Spiegel in his own right, and no doubt he is.
As with the majority of my poems, this was composed during an improvised streak of morning-time inspiration.
This may be considered a style combining a tone like Yeats but a syntax like a jazz serenade.
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.
I imagine this poem could be an allusion to Spike Spiegel, or any other soul who find themselves in a bind.
Yes, I should think this poem's Tom LeFrey could be a Spike Spiegel in his own right, and no doubt he is.
As with the majority of my poems, this was composed during an improvised streak of morning-time inspiration.
This may be considered a style combining a tone like Yeats but a syntax like a jazz serenade.
© 2014 - 2024 Tete-DePunk
Comments14
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"So you stepped in one puddle to divide a lit moon into a hundred stars,
And said you'd call me whenever they found water on Mars."
That was my favorite line. This poem was bleak but somehow... quietly hopeful? I'm not sure how, but that was the impression I got. I think it's perfect!
And said you'd call me whenever they found water on Mars."
That was my favorite line. This poem was bleak but somehow... quietly hopeful? I'm not sure how, but that was the impression I got. I think it's perfect!