Whiskey Hymn

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A symbolist poem about an actual event

Submitted: September 21, 2014

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Submitted: September 21, 2014



for The Beloved (a blues night at Nedjima Bar)


… hypnosis shattered by atomic jiggling, salivation of song on your brow,

channeled chaos of body, spastic sound, tantrum of dark delight, uunbuttoned vibration, stuttering thunder of slap-happy bass thumping the roots of "sweet home chicago",

you and I beard to beard

the pomegranate purple of your breath singeing my whiskers with

notes insanely bent in the blush of your voodoo blood

and throbbing with "go, johnny, go",

johnny be bad in prickly heat needling a conflagration consuming my pores,

revival of beat-howling preacher on knees of confession in harmonica valley,

drumsticks masturbating the crazy, crazed hymen of rhythm ravishing

sin and redemption in our eyes testing the high-wire between us,

fanning the flame, tongue-flailing the invocation:

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, do you have your dancing shoes,

are you ready for some blues flames, some rock `n roll rantin',

Do you like dogs?

You see, the boys in the band are going to let the dogs out,

all the dogs, all the way out and it's going to get scorching hot in here because

hallelujah, amen and great balls of fire!"

here is your medicine-man

screaming joy through the microphone,

catwaulering yowl uprooting our chakras

along the silken storm of strings

strutting, spitting, rattling snake-eyes of resonance along "route sixty-six" curving

around our shoulders in the "t-bone shuffle" of your right shoe, my left,

black, red, "blue suede shoes" and "well, it's one for the money, two for the show"

neural earthquake, volcanic sermon shakin', blessin' and cursin'

down on "mustang sally"

"uh-huh, uh-huh

guess you better slow your Mustang down 'cause you been runnin' all over town"

lawd, "guess I have to put your flat feet on the groun',"

uh-huh, uh-huh

"mustang sally" docidoing with "caledonia" mocking yo' momma, teasing yo' daddy

and tell `em I'm comin' 'cause your name's caledonia' dripping with "sweet alabama",

sulphuric scripture, reprobate weeping sugar, third eye of beer and limbo games under my scarf

you at one end, me at the other, laughing shouting “I'm the hoochie-coochie man!",

and we gotta' get our feet groovin' the path of the seer-serpent probing our souls believin' our believin' eyes in askin',

do you be "secret agent man?"

because they've taken your number and given me your name

I raise in exultation of bone-bred pain screaming for a strangling

of questions "in the shadow of the city" risen from scorched, grinning alleys

strewn with hope-seeds born in the spittle of fertility, ancient

moments still watching over the sacred egg from which we

came – and shriven of barrenness I throw back my head to yell,

"you ain't nothin' but a houn' dawg"

nothin', nothin' but a

houn' dawg, houn' dawg

runnin' tongue-led along my trail joined

to your redolent thread, and us sweetly inflamed with "bad, bad whiskey – and we've lost our home",

bad, bad, bad, bad whiskey, highway of liquid-burning sin and yelping salvation

from heaven and hell to the beyond of the subway station confessed with "I love you",

and the only answer I need is redemption of night

steeped in the beautiful, bad bad whiskey

of your eyes…

… and the whispering hymn of the wind…

© Copyright 2018 Wrulf. All rights reserved.

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