Doug Stewart Poems

She was a high-breasted back street thrush,
Who never really made it to Broadway,
She never really made anywhere plush,
But she tried, oh how she tried to sing the Blues
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Arms they hid beneath their cloaks,
Intent beneath facades of peace,
And fixed their paths toward Montrouge,
A concert, and 130 dead Parisians, a City
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I got ‘em, my plastic 32s
And without them, if they
We're not here, it would
Be so hard to chew.
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She said she had supernatural eyes, for all I knew
It was so.
She said the moon told her how to behave, I thought then
It was rightly so.
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Twilight dips below the hills, the stars rise, strewn;
Down the highway a diesel bellows its air horn,
Off to the east an angry owl screams at the moon.
Musing about life on Mars and thinking about morn.
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When the wine stops flowing and the avocados
Fail, and the mountains no longer weep,
The wheat slowly curls to the ground where even beetles
Strangle from thirst, and when the songbirds cease to trill and rabbits rot,
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There was a time before pain
When rare, when booze or women
Or a good ganga joint would relieve
Would repudiate, would vanquish
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I saw Cinderella in a brand new blue Rolls Royce.
She was sitting in the back seat, she was wearing her shades,
Her Knightly Prince was next to her, he was studiously bored.
Sometimes after sundown, she wonders what it was went wrong.
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Late night jazz oozes from the
Radio, flickering images on the
TV with the sound turned down.
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