The Gambler
August 23, 2008 at 5:19 pm | Posted in writing | 5 CommentsTags: Casanova, F., Scott Joplin, writing with soundtrack
Now wait just a goldern minute, sonny, he said throwing his cards down onto the table. Anyone can see that’s a cheap cheat trick. We can’t all be winning all the time, he said, reaching for his jacket pocket.
Wait, catch a breath there old timer, these is new days. I thought this was a no rules casino, one where we all lived on wits and instincts he said adjusting the frills of lace at his cuffs and removing his pale blue silk hat adorned with feathers. Did you not know it was I, Casanova, who invented the lottery? Let’s see if we can’t come to some amicable agreement. If we can’t all be winners, then someone has to lose.
Haha said F. that’ll be enough of that. Where’s that goddamn pianoplayer? Bootsy, Bootsy, wake up! We are in need of some entertaining distraction, bloody hell, Boss disappears the whole place falls apart he says slamming his glass down on the piano, dust yourself off son, play us some of that good ol’ honkytonk,
(You can read another cool gambling man poem story here…A Gambling Man by Piece Of Pie.)
Mamu’s Watch.
August 20, 2008 at 6:49 pm | Posted in writing | 11 CommentsTags: F., Mamu, the watch, writing
Mamu turned off the radio and its Incessant Babylon and looked at his watch. It made no sense to him, it was the old man’s watch and there were far too many dials and jewels and it bedazzled him momentarily. It was a distraction from the waiting. He wound down the passenger window bent his massive frame and peered out of the limo into the dark of the alleyway. He suddenly remembered he was still wearing Bootsy Collins sunglasses. No wonder,
He couldn’t tell if the band was still playing in the club or it was the sound of his heart beating. He really shouldn’t have taken Three Card’s limo without asking but she had been insistent and even though Mamu knew that many other men who actually had things to give to her also loved her, he could not help himself. He settled back into the soft leather. Besides, he was Mamu.
There was a sudden clatter as the door at the back of the club flew open, and fucking stay out! Said F. throwing the pianoplayer into the garbage cans. Not again, thought Mamu, who tattooed who this time? He looked at his watch then turned the radio on,
alternate hands
August 13, 2008 at 5:16 pm | Posted in writing | 14 CommentsTags: F., home, writing
Well, I did what I did and I done it as well as I could said F. gently balancing his glass on your tummy and kissing your nipple like tasting a strawberry. My goodness, you are beautiful. How has everything been while I was on my travail? The old man still around? I’ve got something for him, an old Chinese Puzzle Box I picked up in Shanghai and then went silent as his mind slipped away and his hand traced the soft line on the inside of your thigh. Hah, guess what, I saw that piano player you used to tease so. He was guarding a door to nowhere on a slowly sinking ship of fools still fiddling with that strange jazz of his, slowly into a sea of words dissolved, became nothing more than a space between two soft folds parting in an admission of consent. He sighed.
got a rolls royce
August 5, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in music, prosepoemthingy, writing | 11 CommentsTags: absynthe, Amsterdam Song, F., T. Rex
‘cos its good for my voice,
anyone can write maudlin introspection
looking into a goddamn mirror, sir ian, he said
clattering up from his chair and tossing
kings and pawns and chequered boards across the room,
play that Amsterdam Song again
the one in which squalls approached and not a man objected,
slamming his drink down on the piano in F.
and leaning in smelling of salt fish, absynthe
and the last trace of some Egyptian cigarette,
so close his whiskers brushed my cheek and whispering,
have you seen the piano player, my dear,
his gift was only in his hands,
as he closed the diamond clasp around my throat
leaned back and smiled
or has he disappeared,
So i said
July 25, 2008 at 7:08 pm | Posted in poetry, prosepoemthingy, writing | 13 CommentsTags: F., poetry, tattoo, writing
to him, Terry, mate, you are supposed to be creating a fucking revolution not whispering in the halls of academia. Fuck’s sake, man, get a grip, haha, said F. placing his frothy glass immaculately on the centre of your belly where despite the many tides and storms stays immaculately upright, though tilting, it’s good to be home,
Haha, I am back, my love, I have a gift, he says, leaning down and kissing your nipple like tasting a strawberry, a new tattoo, it’s a crouching tigger hidden dragon tattoo, schimply schplendiferous looking down at you,
Quick shuffle,
July 7, 2008 at 6:49 pm | Posted in writing | 14 CommentsTags: bootsy collins, Caliban, F., writing
You gotta give ’em what they want, said F., banging the glass down on the piano but by now I saw it coming so long ago that I held the right hand together, have to be chops, I’m afraid, said Bootsy looking somewhat pale.
He whispers Caliban’s whiskers in my ear and I know straight away what to play, just look around at the weary room, an eerie rattle, what you guys need is a bit of flat out bum shuffle, the deck lurched, you see, son he said, one arm around me staring out to stern at the flat horizon,
left in legate
May 30, 2008 at 8:37 pm | Posted in blogging, writing | 9 CommentsTags: F., the old man, writing
right on time he gently places his martini on the piano and snapping his cuffs flashes his watch need and power are in inverse proportion, a gangster story “when in doubt go back to first principles” said (Tony businessman nuggety Irishman resterantuhr whose surname is the origin of the letter) F., (this is true before i even got the computer he was the one who used to say shut up squires get a computer and write it all down.) Here on the other side with me, ferrymanpaid, he says tapping the screen his cigarette immaculate into some imaginary ashtray, with whom and so forth been tied to many a mast said, that in the extreme unlikelyhood that you a drunken Irishman and 10 years older should outlive me, I hereby forthwith and suchlike appoint you the executor of my estate which consists of lots of well hidden debts and the contents of this here briefcaserecorder thingy he says jangling his chains, i never delete anything, have fun, do you remember the ending of that fillum starring Al Pacino, well take a real deep breath i tell you at the wake, you gotta love an irishman, he said, young Jimmy Joyce in Dubliners, heh! Beckett, Sammy, you still here…
The Puzzle Box
gingatao, the podcast- An error has occurred; the feed is probably down. Try again later.
- The Australian Poet Laureate
legal formalities
© P Squires, gingatao, 2007-2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Paul Squires and gingatao, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
'And you have to deal with the terrible karma too.' Paul Squires.
Email us at querygingatao at gmail dot com,
-
Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.
Entries and comments feeds.
gingatao 