ON THE TURN

ON THE TURN

ON THE TURN

Like the twang of an old complaint, the pong
of decomposing swan songs hit him
as a jangle rose
                               from the dee-jay equipment
and the gates groaned open on Hullabaloo. The threshold
yawned like something out of Jaws. “Je t’adore, flophead.
Jette this way, s’il vous plait.”
                                                        She didn’t actually say
she was charmed, but he knew she was. They all were.
Adjusting his tie in a mirror, the old goat
stared fixedly ahead.
                                          Just then a knock
knock joke surfaced and submerged him, Eurydice
felt, in a funk
band fantasy — part enactment, part cow.
Then without warning a ding-a-ling
effect.
             “Hello? Yes, it’s true
Riff-Raff, I’m a virgin. When the black priest comes
for eight days I will offer you a candle.”
                                                                           Muttering
“Attaboy” intermittently, the big-eared gimmick
held out his hands to Chaste Lily
for example.
                          “Swiftly,
I’ve been a swine too long. To change ...” is what
he thought they might have wanted him to say —
tingling, softly, in a flutter.
                                                    He was a bit of a looker
into dark places and the artless. He often
plucked arrangements people
                                                       up to their old tricks
pulled apart and attached strings to. Later he’d
call them names of course — Chouchou,
Oh Rarefied, Nix.