|
Psychedelic Bingo (2035)
by Jennifer Semple Siegel
(Copyright: all rights reserved)
Psychedelic Bingo. The Paisley Palace. Bingo
Black light special. An android with dreadlocks
Calling "O-69" Just another number, an acid trip
Gone mild. Mellow Yellow. We are old--
Hooked up, tied down, turned over. We ain't gonna work
On Maggie's farm no more. Hookahs, posters, rock
Music. Heavy metal, blues, jazz, rock
And roll, colliding like numbers in a Bingo
Cage. I ain't NEVER gonna work
No more. Neon, strobes, Warhol Depends, locked
Wards. We know secrets, secret obsessions over sold-
Out riffs, long-dead songs. Rifts. A Zappa freak trips
Over rolling stones, I.V's dripping into veins. A trip
To the john, now a journey through Haight-Ashbury. Rocky
Mountain High. A path so worn, so molded--
But a man still forgets his way. "Bingo!"
Shrieks a woman on table three, her gray locks,
Frizzed and snarled, shaking like Joplin's. She works
At sliding the numbers, gives voice to others. I'll work
It all out, honey. Ancient as hell. A trip
With Generation X, a quest: a body locked
Into arthritis, loose bowels, erratic beats. "Rock
Me, Baby!" screeches from the loudspeaker. "Bingo!"
Yet another winner. Grand prize, pieces of gold,
Gilded like Elvis on velvet. God, how I dread his old,
Tired thrust. Swap it for new. I wanna work
On Maggie's farm once more. Bingo,
Even psychedelic Bingo, sucks. Acrid trips
For the soured: distant gyrations, silent drums. Rock-
A-Bye, Baby, blown away in the wind. Lock
Life away in a big brass box, next to a locket-
Dulled. Eleanor Rigby, alone, always alone-cold,
Waiting for her name to be called. I wanna rock
With Sgt. Pepper--paints Woodstock by number. Fretwork:
Now done. Bad vibrations: gone. No more trips
To the Clinic, no more flashing lights. Bingo:
Psychedelic Bingo. Listen for doors, that last blackout. Lock
Away Purple Haze; trip up Witch Hazel and Sister Grace. Bold
work in Surrealistic Pillow all rocked
Out, lady, out.
|
|
|
|
Fat Lady Fantasy in Blue Flat
by Jennifer Semple Siegel
(Copyright: all rights reserved)
Oh, Lord, I'm just another fat lady.
What song would You want me to sing?
I'll sing my song all over this place, praise Thee!
I'll mix the blues with a symphony of paisley.
Tell me, Lord, what colors may I bring?
Oh, Lord, I'm just another fat lady.
Tell me, Lord, You think I'm red hot crazy?
Please bestow me with rainbow pitch, no strings.
I'll sing my song all over this place, praise Thee!
I promise, Lord, to bend lines into curves--maybe
Not today, but surely tomorrow when the sun rings.
Oh, Lord, I'm just another fat lady.
My pallette sings epics: russets of woe and malady.
But, Lord, my kaleidoscope spills bloodstone tidings.
I'll paint my song all over this place, praise Thee!
Strip from me some slivers of red--now maybe
You know what happens when I, the fat lady, sings
Naked before all. No, I'm not just another fat lady.
Yes, I sing: ruby rocks, alla cappella--praise me!
|
|
|
|
|
Replace this with some text welcoming your guests to your web site or describe your services.
|
|
|
