The king and queen

I wrote this a few months ago, inspired by a ghost of a rumour of a story while parsing the nether regions of the net for tidbits.

I don't know why I loaded it so heavily with nonsense-rhyme, but once I started I couldn't stop

AT THE BACK OF THE BUS

The fighter-writer’s laying on

 a million dollar bang and bash

in flash cache past the country clubs

Out on the wildest woody slope,

The painter-waiter fired a man

And hired a van to stack and stash

The stars whose cars some schlub

Would wash and crash for pills and soap.

The landlocked-dandy hawked his Hals

For board and bread aboard the bus

And shook his easy eyes’ surprise

To see on seats back left, mid right

The iron-siren soused with scowls

Averted from the fluff and fuss

Afforded her marauder-fraud

Folk-joker snoring in plain sight.

“Hey Moany Joany!” sneered the wisp

His beard a weird gypsy eclipse

“Hey Bitchy Mitch, how’ bout a song

To light the night bright blue, dame Joan,

A singalong, perhaps,” he rasped,

“A chorus ‘cross your bitter lips?

That ‘taxi’ track lacks class of course

But is at least, a little known.”

She stored her horde of howls and stings

For years beyond this tawdry trap.

‘He’ll have his fun, this unwashed imp

This limp-lord tramp of New York tricks,

I’ll bite back bright, my latent hate

Will staunch his aged arid tap,

For now, my frown will own this van,

This sinning stone can stick his sticks.’

The ill-matched batch of cult adults

Chugged cheerless through the towering maze

Till slowly Joni’s journey turned

To gentler greener sounds and sights.

The driver dreamer looked away

As hay was made amidst the haze

Of haves and has-been beatnik hicks

Now blinded by the city lights.

The full-up fun bus pulled up airless -

Careless careerists collapsed to ground

To see the scene of casual carnage

The great create when loose to play.

The fightwright held sure court on sport

Relating Zaire’s frightening sound

“The angry, hungry, jungle rumbled

To chants of Ali Bomaye.”

The tireless diarist shrunk back shrewdly,

Eavesdropped on the schmooze of pop kids,

Circus jerk-offs hawking showreels,

Deal sharks apt to be impressed less.

Downtown upstate upstart drop outs

Turn up tuned in, soon doubts set in,

Slick songs sicken sixties hipsters

“Turn down this cheap tin can synth mess.”

The auteur turncoats skulk and snap

The scene into a deep, dark farce

A wistful waltz time overlaid

 To frame the failures of the age,

Shaping squares round eastern faces

Wondering which west face to cast.

Thunder rolls in, wonder bails out,

Leading players vacate the stage.

The troupe regrouped relieved rolls back

To wherever they all came from.

“No fireworks” said the vagabond,

“No fireworks” she, for once, agreed.

Those were the last words that they spoke,

The one thing they agreed upon,

A shared assent no record kept

And neither would again concede.