art-gallery-at-night

I’m but a tiny cog in the massive machinery of the eternal profession,

Which sucks the life out of anyone with even a hint of the old fight left in ‘em.

The tattooed therapist cradles my head and whispers reassurances in my ear,

Our feet dangling off the edge of the rings of Saturn,

As I strum away on a cosmic guitar,

Singing the gospel of Bob Dylan and wondering what’s become of my life.

 

What does it mean when a friend says he loves you,

Assures you of your worth and good standing,

Only to leave you broken and abandoned on the railroad tracks

As the locomotive that exemplifies my fear and anxiety

Rounds the bend with speed and ferocity?

“Night Train” indeed,

As it chugs along to the sound of Charlie “Bird” Parker and Dizzy Gillespie.

 

There’s a Salvation Army man standing on the corner,

Hawking God’s wares and prophesizing the end of humanity

As us wayward souls gather ‘round a portable phonograph,

Passing a joint between us and blowing our brains out

At the latest news from Syria or the White House.

 

On your Marx, get set, BANG!

 

Does anyone know who J. Alfred Prufrock really is?

He speaks of the yellow fog that creeps and crawls along the streets of war-torn London,

Leaving its mark on doors and windows.

Well, that yellow fog is now in my system,

Slowly destroying me from the inside out,

With each passing minute.


© Chester Sakamoto

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