Saturday, June 19, 2021

Ah, New Orleans


 


Ah, New Orleans, that decrepit old whore!

 

A face rife with fissures and echoes of jazz,

The half forgotten jazz that plays to ghosts, 

With notes of a lost generation and whiskey

Flavored by sugary stagnation.

 

Sit ‘n a bar, dine on oysters, with yesterday’s 

Stale recipes and coagulated sauces.

 

The diners come to say they’ve been here.

Oh, yes, I’ve seen the Street Car Named Desire,

And don’t know Tennessee Williams.

And Bill Faulkner?  Who is he?

 

And never heard Louis or Al blow their

Dented trumpets or Pete his licorice stick.

 

The streets reek of tawdry bodies sick with lust

 And find romance a bothersome chore.

 

Oh, yes, a weak old whore, with cracked teeth

And dusty hair.  See how her rouge has faded

And her mascara creeps down her legs.

 

A ragged whore whose beauty is blighted

And cracked with age, her hair a dusty mop.

 

But, bring your money and your sex, the old 

Girl needs it.

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