The Waist Land: A Parody Read online

III The Lyre Sermon

  The stream pavilion lies open, the rosied fingers of dawn

  Stroke and press into the wet bank. The breeze

  Freshens the green land, and heard. Angels saunter about.

  Turgid Thames, He tames and slows, till I end my song.

  The river swirls its empty bottles, sandwich wrappers,

  Silky toilettes, cardboard boxes, cigarette butts

  Or other accusations of slumlord blights slowly now. Angels dauntless on high.

  And their friends, the translated saints of cities departed;

  Directors, have left there their addresses.

  By the waters of Champlain, I stood and wondered. . .

  (Grassy field plains of Babylon, what folly build you there?)

  Thames He tames, run softly till I end my song,

  Tart Thames, lie mutely, for I speak not loud or long.

  But at my back in a warm gust I hear

  The rattle of bones, and laughter peeled from ear to ear.

  A cat slipped softly through the vegetation

  Brushing its well groomed belly o'er the flowered bank

  While I toyed with fishes in the bright canal

  On a timeless day glow round behind leaf sheds

  Where the healing leaves medicinal dry and cure

  Musing upon a thing my brother left

  And on the thing my fathers left before him.

  Peach hued bodies naked on the grass soft ground

  (And hues of gold, barley, and chestnut, vanilla bean)

  Bone china on cream tablecloths in tree house rooms nearby

  Rattled by the leaping cat's paws curious as cats so oft are

  (Year after year, timeless years of curious cats meaning no harm)

  But at my back from time to time I hear

  The sound of bells and horses, which shall bring

  Peter bar Jona to Mrs. Porter, eternal spring gate.

  O the moon shone bright beneath Mrs. Porter

  (Mrs. Porter was the light.)

  And on her daughters.

  They wash their feet in blessed water.

  Et O ces voix des aînés commes d’enfants, chantant sous la coupole!

  [trans. And O these voices of elders like children, singing under the dome!]

  Tira-a-lira lira, tira-a-lira lay

  Tootle-loo, ta-ta, cheerio lovey-dove

  Berkshire Bessie and Surrey Suzie sing just so, unforced

  And so true.

  Disraeli City

  Under the crowned fog of a summer dawn

  Mr. Eugenicist, the flesh merchant

  Clean shaven, with a pocket full of vials

  COD* London, documents unseen, [trans. *Cash on Delivery, USA abbrev.]

  Asked me in Limerick two step verse

  Cock 'em, block 'em

  Why not drug 'em?

  Dumb down, Dumb 'em

  Shannon Limerick

  London dimwits

  Bribe 'em, deal 'em

  Mc's for sale, O

  Slimey Limey

  O so grimey

  Nice for crime, E

  For Eugenics, K

  For Killing Niggers

  Who cares, the jiggers

  Kali's a bitch

  Pakistan witch

  Screw the liquor

  Dose 'em with H

  Meth ain't proscribed

  In the Koran

  God's dead besides

  I Got no time

  To make this rhyme

  Ta-ta, good-bye.

  Let's do lunch on Cannon Street

  (He sells cannon too.)

  Followed by a weekend at Interpol.

  They got the dope on Eliot Thomas Stearns

  Bank clerk extraordinaire, record clean as a whistle.

  Clean is what laundering is all about.

  Blackmail is clean mail unexposed;

  Besides, his wife's a loon; that's a boon.

  At the violent hour, muggers start to rustle

  Deep purple veined blood prepares to flow.

  When violet hued fingers seize the day

  As fingers choke the light of life from victims,

  The eyes and back turn up in alarm of

  Clock whistles, grandpa clock chimes.

  Violent violet twilight demise of day

  Turn eyes and back upward from the desk

  Of suspect paperwork, unconfirmed reports,

  And the human heartthrob waits throbbing

  Like a getaway car disguised as a taxi throbbing waiting.

  I, M. Tiret-si-as*, French though not blind, bob 'twixt two tongues [*trans. Hyphen-Yes- suffix]

  Old man with man-boob breasts who toked too much weed

  Can see that hyphens are much abused though clearly legal

  In compounding French terms: Marxiste-léniniste

  Karl's leftist creed conjoined to right wing circumstances, oh, please

  Spare me Karl and Vladimir, just give me the hyphen please.

  Middle road, straight and narrow to paradise leads

  De this and de that, de, de, de, de. Tiret, je dit, tiret! [trans. of, of, etc. Hyphen, I say...]

  The revolution brushed aside those de people by guillotine or firing squad

  Prêt, en joue, tirez! Oui, tiret, tiret! [trans. Ready, aim, fire! pron. tirez & tiret is same sound]

  Then Napoleon came, great French hero who detested us

  Not because we are fools and rude, rather we do not pronounce our e's and other letters

  For you see, Italians not only sing their vowels, they vocalize them in speech.

  They mock us though French continues to mute and nasalize. At this rate

  Within a few centuries French will be the only living language entirely mute.

  But that's another point. Besides the French, land of Marcel Marceau

  Are the acknowledged masters of mime. They'll get by just fine.

  Tourette's Syndrome is a terrible affliction. Tirets Syndrome is far worse:

  The stubborn unwillingness to use hyphens when making compound French words!

  And as Voltaire before me, I have flown the coup, you might say, to England, liberal England

  Where men are free to use hyphens liberally. And so I clerk beside Stearns bitterly

  Till that day when France receives the light, a hyphenated beam of revelation --

  Dot, dash, dot, dash, hyphens but a dash, period.

  Vowels are female letters, open like womb; males are consonants;

  The Hebrews have all consonants, the misogynists, except Aleph

  Is really a vowel left unspoken.

  “Shut up bitch,” as you might expect from misogynists.

  Hebrew ends with a 't' sound, and the cross leaves off to start the New Testament.

  Greeks, misogynists too but much charmed by witch and goddess, not as much;

  Alpha and omega, begins and ends with a vowel.

  Omicron and Omega, two O's, Oh my!

  Roma splits the difference: start vowel and end consonant, the z,

  Half of the Nazi swastika, macho revolt against feminist cant.

  Letters 26, oh, no! Half of weeks and deck of cards,

  We could easily go for 52 and drop upper and lower case.

  Fit just fine on keyboard, and spoken dictation the coming thing.

  Now homeward my thoughts turn as the sailor home from sea,

  The 26 letter typist home for tea, clear fast food wrappers, lights

  Her stove, and lays out food microwave bowls.

  Out of her window perilously tilted her

  A/C, but under English sun, if crashed not much ado.

  But its her allergies you see. Maybe better an air purifier?

  On the divan are piled (at night her bed)

  Pantyhose, slippers, blouses and bras.

  I, Tiret-si-as, old frog with wrinkled man-boobs

  Espied the scene, and foretold the rest --

  I too awaited the expected mule.

  He, the y
oung man, carbuncular with gems, arrives

  A small house agent's clerk, with one cold stare

  One of the low on whom insurance sits

  As a made man in a Mafia/judge arranged scam

  (He ain't doing time. Pass go; go directly to community chest.)

  The time is now propitious, he guesses,

  The deal is ended, she is bored and tired,

  Endeavors to engage her conversation

  Which is much unreproved, if undesired.

  Flushed and decided, he assaults at once:

  “So, Pirate Jenny, what think you this life of crime?”

  “Ah, my stash continues to build. My little cottage

  In Devon awaits with dwindling mortgage.

  This dreary flat, sitting on my arse typing

  My circulation impairing, standing at the copier,

  Some nabob nigger with condescending air.

  'You little English lily, your pasty legged clots

  Of varicosity! How disgusting!'

  “If seized by white slavers, I'd gloat in his disgust

  At my varicosities. But it's not so bad, and my escape

  To retire still young, my country cottage airs.

  Pirate Jenny, why it's English tradition,

  And I don't even have to go to sea.

  I might suffer from mal de mer or maybe not.

  I shall rent a sailboat on that lovely little pond

  Just down the road of my lovely with Devon cottage.

  I shall take up fishing, rent a rowboat, buy a gun;

  Hunt for grouse, pick berries on the shore, learn

  All about mushrooms, plant a garden, a small one,

  Buy a horse, bounce my English bottom round about.

  If a lady passes in greeting, I will put on my vilest

  Liverpool, East End dialect, mix them all together.

  What would she know, a grin with delight at her

  Condescending air. I did not take up a life of crime

  To be looked down on by snotty ladies.”

  Exploring glances encounter no defense:

  “You got any kinky girlfriends or acquaintances

  Looking for dinner, show and 100 quid?”

  His vanity requires a response

  And she makes a welcome note of his indifference.

  “Ask Bob in the mail room.”

  (And I Tiret-si-as have foresuffered all

  Enacted in the closet behind this divan or bed

  I who have visited Thebes on holidays, and walked

  Among the tombs of Greeks, for 5 quid

  Travel expense, Sunday dinner and a shag

  Watch over my comrade English bird for

  Deals sometimes go sour, with my Walther at ready,

  Speed dial to the police as last resort, and I'm old

  And still horny, lonely. We talk of hyphens;

  She knows a little French. Je l'adore, un peu. [trans. I adore her, a bit.]

  She bestows one final patronizing kiss

  And I grope my way out, finding the stairs unlit.

  She turns a moment and looks in the glass,

  Hardly aware of her departed protector and old lover;

  Her brain allows one naked thought to oblige her:

  “Well now that's one more war won: and I'm glad it's done.”

  When lovely woman stoops to conquer penury

  (Even though showing signs of varicosities)

  Paces about the room gainfully, vaulting proceeds carefully

  She smooths her siren hair with contemplative hand

  And enters a ledger entry to her well hid palm pilot.

  “This musical swept down upon me from above

  And along the Strand up Queen Victoria Street.

  O, City, city, I can sometimes hear

  Beside a public fountain, lowly tames the ear

  The pleasant voice of angels singing by lyre

  Amid the clatter and the chatter from without

  And St. Magnus Martyr bells enjoining well

  Inexplicable splendor of celestial music, bright as gold

  Jesus, Jesus burning bright

  In the forests of the night

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could heal this varicose cry?

  What dread Father, What the Mother

  Dare stay this curse reprieve? Not I

  Did he whose blood did flow so free

  Not have power to heal? You see.

  Pirate Jenny learn tai chi, the dog, stretch or two;

  On the job Pilates, why sell your soul?

  A bit of wisdom here and there

  From China, India, America too.

  Price of a CD, a class or two at worst

  Even Jane Fonda might save your soul.

  Though I wouldn't count on it, a bit too frenetic.

  The river sweats away

  Oil and tar like morning dew

  The garden barges drift

  With the turning tide of life

  Wide to Narrow, straight and true

  To leeward, sells produce in Southwark fruit bars.

  Green sailed grocer pier to pier

  The kennel barges wash

  Wash drifting dogs.

  Down Greenwich reach

  To the Isle of Dogs.

  River winds but not time

  River winds but not time

  River winds but not time

  Straight and true

  Into the blue

  Weialala leia

  Wallala leialala

  “Gams and lusty pees.

  Highbury walls free. Richmond to Kew

  Undid me. By Richmond I leaked on knees

  Supine on the brick of a narrow alley.”

  “My feet wet at Moorgate, and my fly

  Over my feet. After the event

  He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’

  I made a comment. Public pay toilets, à l'allemand?”

  “On Margate Sands.

  I can pee free

  Nothing for something.

  The broken oyster shells on dirty sands.

  My people bumble people who expect

  Something.”

  la la

  From Roma then I came

  Soaking washing raining rinsing

  O Lord Thou cleanest me out

  O Lord Thou cleanest

  raining

  IV. Life by Water

  Jonah the Hebrew dad, a fortnight raised,

  Recalls the cry of gulls, and the deep sea tell

  Of the prophet and gain.

  A rock boy arose asea

  Fleshed his bones in heartbeats. As he rose to tell

  He rent the stage of his age and youth

  Proclaiming the war whoop.

  Gentile or Jew

  O you who break the wheel of fortune and look to heavenward,

  Consider Jonah, who was once fallen and dead as you.