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Apocalypse SoupTony Langham
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Apocalypse SoupTony Langham
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| PARTY, PARTY Ginsberg's in a corner with Basho, They're drinking sweet rice wine; Monk vamps, Chet and Bird blow, The music's cool, so fine. Fitzgerald's standing at the bar, Drinking with Hemingway; Willie Blake's tight with a seraphim, They're talking Judgement Day. Sinatra's schmoozing with Dean Martin, With Sammy and the Rat Pack; Warhol's hanging with Dellasandro Burrough's cruising with Kerouac. Sam Beckett, Francis Bacon And the Pre-Raphaelite Gang are there; Along with Elvis and Leonardo, Rousseau and Apollinaire. Bogart and Brecht are playing five-card stud, With Einstein and Lao Tze; Watched by a straight in a Brook's Bros. suit, Who's with the C.l.A. 'Round midnight the joint's really jumpin', And Kafka gets down with Bardot; Nijinski does the Soft Shoe Shuffle, Descarte grooves with Greta Garbo. Harpo Marx and Chico are busy Chasing Mae West around; But Groucho's busy writing limericks With Eliot and Ezra Pound. Rothko and Jackson Pollock Are both doing their thing; B. B. King plays some elegant riffs, Jung reads the Tao Te Ching. Fidel flies in from Havana, Hands out a few cigars; Then splits with Dylan Thomas, To hit some Downtown bars. Picasso moves around the room With a Polaroid to record the scene; Surprises Brando with Sylvia Plath And Auden with Jimmy Dean. And I'm making out with Marilyn Who arrived with JFK; But Jack had to cut out early, Mr.President couldn't play So we sit there and I tell her, That I really dig her the most; And before the party's over, We take off for the Coast. Drive down the Pacific Highway, In a flame-red Thunderbird, Hit the beach as dawn comes up, Soft light, soft breeze, soft words. Drink champagne, smoke a while Then turn the T-Bird and go. Drive home as the surf's rising, Talking about DiMaggio. |
