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Allen Clarke Allen Clarke
Recommendations: 18

The Tricky Man.


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She had a friend.

Once again, I caved in to The Muse. Where does this stuff come from? Can anybody shed a light on the subject. It`s not that I was listening to the blues when I wrote this. It just came out, that`s all. Kinda like when you gotta take a dump, you know what I mean?


      It was Saturday night and the place was a-buzz with the tingle of mid-summer


excitement. Tinkling glass, rush of waiter, chinking of plates, these were all part of


that night.The lights were dim, full of the promise of new romance. Candlelight half-hid


the blush of passion. Over in the corner of The Poetry Bistro, a couple enamoured could


barely contain their recycled , tainted love. There didn`t appear to be a virgin in the


place. Father Chipalo hung out over in the shady section, quite incognito, sipping on


Dom Perignon.



     A sax played dreamily. The effervescent laughter of a lady diva echoed softly from


the loft. The piano man, played on; wearing a pair of soft, white gloves. The truth was


he did not desire to be contaminated by some bug on this happiest hour of the evening.


Smoke clouded the room in wisps of blue carcinogen. Waiters waited and whisked about in


their elegant white suits. A prominent lawyer about town keeled over in a drunken heap


by the s-shaped bar. No doubt he would make bail the next morning when he would wake up,


bleary-eyed in the local gratis hotel.



     Of a sudden,the lights were dimmed still lower. The spotlight came up,casting an


ethereal glow,on center-stage. The 1940-ish style mike stood alone, waiting for


someone,to speak into it. Then came the rich, baritone voice out of nowhere.



     ``Ladies and Gentlemen, I presume ! As promised, in conjunction with The Poetry Bistro


and The Venice House, would you please give a thunderous round of applause to the poet


with the golden lips....er...uh...eh... Excuse me, it appears as though I`ve lost my cue


card. Anyway, here he is. Perhaps, we can call on him to introduce himself.``



     He didn`t walk on stage, he slinked. With torn jeans, and longish hair that


desperately needed shampoo, he meandered over to the silver gleaming microphone. Under


the scrutinizing heat of the spotlight, he exuded an aura of cheap grandiosity. From a


distance, and if one was just crawling out from under a table, he would have fairly


resembled a poor mock-image of Jim Morrison. Taking out a canvas flask, he took a swig


quite nonchalantly. He slid onto the bar-stool beside the mike, and pulled out a


tattered loose-leaf from his chambray vest pocket. For a moment or two, there appeared


to be a halo of hair fuzz hanging about his head. Shaking  it off, the fuzz flew away,


as he peered through blue-hued sunglasses, he thusly began his introduction.



     ``Hi. I`m just a little tipsy and just a little high. Bear with me, please. I`m


known by many names, usually in the caustically-expletive sense. But for our purposes,


and for the remainder of the evening, you can call me The Tricky man.``



     ``Here is a poem, at the moment,without a title. I conjured it up,out of the depths


of my tortured soul. After my heart was forthwith broken by this brazen Jezebel, I wrote


it through the haze of unrequited love. I admit, it did precious little, to assuage the


resulting, emotional trauma. Gentlemen,if you please,( he gestures to the three-piece


combo ) would you give me the key of Blue.``



     The sax player looked at the man on the slide guitar and deduced that the man with


the golden lips was speaking of the Blues. They then concurred to set the mood. Thus


they began to play some,`Howlin` Wolf``.


     Somewhere in the shadows, a lone critic, wise-cracked.


     ``Blah, blah, blah, blah...blah!``



     Someone snickered in the audience. Tricky Man shot a wild glance in the direction of the


sound of mockery. Tension fluxed in the cool night air, while overhead, the great


circular fans droned on. Momentarily, the easy breeze of cool, returned to the heady


atmosphere in The Bistro. The audience sat back, as though they were calmed by his voice


and his enigmatic, though trashy presence. A lone fly buzzed about his greasy head.



     There was a long pause, and after what seemed like an elongated ripple in time,


Tricky Man began his verbal emoting. The band played softly and smoothly in the


background, jazz riffs; interspersed with quicksilver smatterings, of Delta blues.



     I have seen the other side of midnight
     through the eyes of a girl who I thought was mine
     she cut me and left my heart bleeding
     that`s why I sing the blues the way I do
     That`s why I hide my tears behind these shades
     they hide me from my shame
     cause no man wants to say,"I lost her"
     least-ways, not... to another woman


     It`s not that my dick was prone to limp overtures
     cause if nothing else, honey, I got the horsepower in me
     hey, come up and see me some time, is what I always say
     anytime of the night or day, I aim to please, tell me what I say!
     I got to admit, she was a pretty little thing
     it's just that I didn`t know she was secretly butch


     But, hey, what did I do wrong to make her feel so right?
     maybe I should have showed her more of my feminine side
     Who am I trying to delude?
     the fact is, I don`t have one and I have the hair to prove it
     now, don`t get me wrong, I`m not crying, I`m just telling
     my own personal brand of fabricated, true lies
     those lying eyes, I wrote that song in my heart
     long before the eighties, 100 years afore I popped my cherry


     Now, I`ve been accused of being a greasey part-time gigolo
     not entirely true, not entirely true...at least, not that low
     I can falsify my cry of hunger when the pangs get too great to bear
     a man got to eat, ain`t nobody going to read your mind
     when you`re aching for bacon, you have to do what you have to do
     I am Trickster, now don`t get me wrong, I love my red brother
     but I don`t bang on no drum and go ky-yi-ying


     I loves my women, and in general, they tend to love me right back
     but don`t tell my wifey, no, mister... don`t you touch that dial!
     I got enough blues heaped on my plate, as it is
     Hey, sis, you sure do have a nice smile
     what do you mean, it ain`t for me, just when I`m thinking
     I`m struttin`, all proud, like the pussy`s meow!


     Don`t you go breaking my heart now, you hear
     I got enough of a mess of blues to last me well into the next century!
     guess I wasn`t as pretty as that girl she took off with
     what a fuck-up! my dream girl turned up like something else altogether
     makes a man want to go find himself or something
     go crawl in a hole or something or maybe go to Tibet
     or Africa and chase lions or something of that crazy nature


     (Pausing to light a fag, he then watches the smoke rise and curl, dissipating into the
      churning overhead fan)


Why she did it
I`ll never know
I mean...look at me
iffen I was on MacDonald menu
I'd come up as full meal deal
Never mind, forget that last stanza
I guess I have to admit
I had my part
in the whole fart of the situation
I deceived my heart
into believing she couldn`t live without
Me



and, then there was her
jellied husband
yeah, I know the plot thickens
like a fermenting piece of shit
which I took, on my dark haunches
Unobtrusively,in a camouflaged corner
thinking nobody will notice
but sooner, or later
even The Tricky Man, has to pay...



                        ``There you are, you son-of-a...!!!



     In an instant, the spotlight swings over to the trembling, enraged figure of the


livid  husband ! A shot spits death into the blackness of The Bistro, as Tricky man drops


to the floor, oozing life. With his last rasps of breath, he reaches for the tattered


loose-leaf and embraces his beloved words, close to his bleeding heart. As his life


ebbed into the endless void, Tricky Man, sobbed out to his mammy. Father Chipalo


stumbled to his side and commenced to perform the last rites. Tricky Man`s breath came


out in laboured heaves. Confession was something entirely new to Tricky`s dubious


itinerary. Tragically, he had struck up a fresh start at the end of his life! With his


soul absolved, Tricky man`s visage took on a refreshingly...saintly aspect.



      However, given the circumstance, he thought,...``what the hell!`` He quickly began


rattling off his most glaring sins, and, once in awhile, Chipalo would momentarily,


sober,at each shocking revelation. The priest presided over the poet, wide eyed and


disbelieving.



     Momentarily, and with one last heaving breath, Tricky Man resolved that he had


given his last performance. His crumpled, dishevelled body lay cradled in the trembling


arms of Father Chipalo. With one arm clinging onto Tricky Man and one hand clutching


his precious Dom Perignon, he took one huge pull on the expensive champagne. The


precious liquid, which had been tramped out by the feet of slavish Franciscan monks,


dribbled down his scruff and onto his soiled white collar. With a wide-eyed look of


stupefied awe, the celibate priest contemplated Trick Man`s sordidly seedy disclosure.



     `` Mamma Mia! Sacre` Bleu! What a helluva ...!!``came the priest`s final exclamation!  


The portly priest heaped his massive hulk of a body over onto Tricky Man. Within moments,


  Chipalo gasped out his last breath. The next day the coroner`s report would attest that he


he had died of a massive cardiac arrest.



     Pandemonium breaks forth like waves crashing on the shores of some unknown desert


island. Screams of interrupted repast devour the night. Candles burn, dripping wax, like


tears running down the unblushing cheeks, of the thoroughly debauched.



     It rained tears when they interned him. It fell in a fine mist like soft baptismal showers.


He went back to the earth from whence he...( ahem)... came.


     Nobody ever really knew his real name. Except for the women he soiled with his own


peculiar brand of lust, no one was ever really close to the man. His loose-leaf


collection of primitive poetry somehow found its` way onto the free market. He had, at


last found a certain posthumous fame. Tricky Man had indeed lived a most violently


emotional life. He imprinted his claw-marks of passion on many a forever debauched one-time


virgin. However, in the last few moments of life, he made peace with God. He passed from


this life into the next with a smile on his face. All was forgiven!



     And, so, somewhere in this whole wide world, in some dimly lit cafĂ©, a microphone


awaits the next man with the golden lips. The winds blow wildly upon his grave, and, at


times it sounds like the howl of feminine sorrow. His gravestone is cold and grey and is


inscripted darkly, and...sadly forthwith so.



     The epitaph reads...


     Here lies The Tricky Man, a victim of his grimes


     A lone bullet bore his name and finally found its` mark


     A world of women weep for this lover of many


     Who finally met his end, at the fateful hand of Kharma


     And the happenstance marksmanship of Jimmy Jonesy-Boy


     Yep, let be a lesson of the end-all

     As becomes of those who love, far too dangerously.


                               Finito


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