Canto LXXV

Oh Marnie Stern, you frantic fingered femme,
guitar goddess, don of the tapping style,
New York art rocker, not hipster scum—

like Vera Lynn sent men in double file
to die a gruesome death in Normandy
you spur me on to run that extra mile

of Brockwell Park, that is until some Rottie
mistakes my left leg for a turkey drumstick.
His owner’s on the phone so she’s not worried.

I have no plans to become doggie steak,
a karmic pay off for Korean cuisine,
I dodge the slobbering jaws and make a break

for the park gates, while Zach Hill’s drums careen
and clatter like some motorway pile up
as your voice adds a layer of the serene.

I ‘scape the hell hound’s jaws and start my hike up
the same hill where my pregnant wife has leaned
against a London Plane so she could puke up.

That’s what you get for liking R&B.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Nov 16, 2011 @ 01:14:21

    Never mind the poem…I’ve just watched Marnie Stern on You tube.
    She makes me want to pick up my guitar and hack out discordant notes.

    The first stanza says it all.


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