Prologue: Tabloid excitement prevails throughout America, for example, the times when an aging star, a businessman, or more often a politician, jilts a timeworn wife for the sexual delights of a shapely young beauty.
Encouraged by watching T.V. and (24/7) Viagra commercials with sultry actresses cavorting in nighties, I suspect millions of married Average Joes, including myself, take daily account of their blah, “better or worse” vows. They understand they're “not getting any younger,” and with cockeyed reason, many conclude their Off-the-Altar-Clock-Times can surely get “better.”
What's more, fragile 21st Century American couples are conditioned to believe that their government loves them unconditionally, “for better or worse.” Then comes incognito shocks to the national Zeitgeist – involving waves of government, corporate, and 1% screwovers and murder.
Naturally, even passionate citizens gradually begin to see the bare betrayal, dressed of course in foxy clothing! In some rare cases, a breakdown of the male proclivity to unconditionally love ubiquitous Stars and Stripes bikinis occur, and those who desire more than just Star Wars passion and Two and a Half Men lust, get fed up and... they bolt Baywatch to recover the love which (ideally) created and compassionately inspired them.
The following poem is the result of consolidating all those different voices which congregated upon my restless pillow, and have “peeped” into The Show of passionate love and its curious devolution into lust. Appearing are up-and-down lovers Samson and Delilah, the “hell broke loose” love of Charles Manson for his Family, and the trials of the author who delights in a love where activation of Pillow Talk rests in memory. Thank you for listening in!
Delilah and I
longed to avoid stodgy retired life
in a post-Helter Skelter gated community,
so we escaped to Northeastern Arizona
and scored temporary lodging in legendary
Doom Chute Estates (a hole-in-the-earth) *
and I think time's come to trim gray hair,
cast the old hag, Delilah, away!
Recommended for You
Miffed, I will say to her,
“Where are your California mini-skirts?”
Judges of the exceptional American Mob,
please let me do the talking....
“O why, Delilah, why are there no more
naked romps around Topanga Canyon?”
It's a bummer when you can not
cash anymore of Daddy's U.S. Savings Bonds!
Tut, tut, there's no more nookie
like evenings when you were a cheerleader
in the back of our mushroom painted bug.
No more coffee and bedtime promises
before going on your merry way to make
a “killing” as a Lingerie Lunch waitress!
What names are those
written in red on the Doom Chute cave wall?
“Jackie loves Jack,
Marilyn loves Jack,
Judith loves Jack.”
O Christ, how I'd kill to be Jack for a day!
Is there any love left, my Delilah,
but actually – was there ever anything
between us but indispensable lust?
I desire the Delilah of Judges (sweet) 16,
and I will take none other!
Alas her teeth are all gone,
crooked fingers and toes,
she weighs 95-pounds, wrinkled,
swollen feet in an ice bucket,
and Vicodin pills need refill.
Never fail though, at Black Friday festivals,
Delilah's taken on all the Philistines,
she even talked with Rachel Maddow
while the goddam CIA went wherever I went.
Out out, old Delilah, humble me not!
I want to get stoned for carousing with starlets
who light the Doom Chute candles.
Another “X” etched upon another calendar day –
“Just for Men” dye blends
into my skull's gray hair sprouts.
To limit nighttime pee-pee, I drink cranberry juice,
Delilah sings Pet Songs in the bathtub,
I can't afford Playboy's final centerfold edition,
and as there's no more homeland passion,
I wait for perfumed mayhem in-Chicago-loins to break.
Will you still run fingers through my locks, Delilah?
Family member, Gypsy, shared with Linda Kasabian, Charlie Manson's bizarre plan for escape and sanctuary into a secret “hole-in-the-earth” while race war convulsed Nixon's America. Much into the 21st Century ruling mindset, American people-of-means are preparing private Doom Chutes, with Samson salons.