Voyeur

 

 

Skylines bogie down quickly,

clouds rush by like Cossacks –

there is a funeral, there is jazz.

Bourbon Street swells appropriately,

for a local musician has died.

 

The porches above the streets

are full of revelry and beads.

The procession flows like Owsley’s acid

from gutter to neon gutter.

The dancing mimed, surreal,

the colors absinthe, purple pinwheel.

The evening air is thick

with the smell of piss and roses.

 

No mourner really – tourist,

though I did like his music –

it occurs to me most funerals

are earlier in the day.

He apparently loved dusk,

a jazz time of day,

and friends partying as skylines fade.

 

I wonder when the wake will end

and the next begin, at the wine-aged sax,

the skyline, his dusk, the passion

rising primal from the streets,

the sexual heat from his entourage

as skylines bogie down quickly.

 

2 comments

  1. Hi Craig

    No mourner really – tourist,

    though I did like his music –

    it occurs to me most funerals

    are earlier in the day.

    He apparently loved dusk,

    a jazz time of day,

    and friends partying as skylines fade.

    This is so beautifully done with vivid imager and sounds that jolt the reader’s senses and takes him or her right into this scene unfolding into Bourbon Street. I was there and totally absorbed by the flavor you masterfully create with your pen. I have heard of such funerals in New Orleans but you really bring it alive. Thanks for taking me there, fine poem indeed!

    Best
    Wendy

    Like

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