a song of flatbush, st paddys and the living and the dead

lucky strikes

I smoked em, luckys for the longest time

with that taste of spice and pepper

like irishmen back then

swore em off a long time ago

you ask me why I’ll tell ya they’re easy

too easy to get used to wanting

like potato chips

and satin drawers

silken on the skin and salty in the mouth

til one day you wake up fat and raw

loved quite a few of them

you might say they was my specialty

was they lucky?

maybe it was us that was lucky, maybe me

in spite of the knocks

but I could dish em too

they told you I was a piece of work in my day and been knowed to reach over a stool

and slap the crap outta some dumb whore for giving my man the eye

and yeah I did a fast jig at st paddys every year and

even now theys still some that admire the roundness of my ass how it quivers

under the hand and my mouth my voice the way I sang and drank with the best

and didn’t stop till last call doors locked lights out

one st pats we ended up in bobby joyce’s car with one of us sittin on some kids hand in the back she too close between and drunker than alla us

so she broke a finger (or so she said) while we was drivin from o’briens to gilmores to moriaritys

round and round til bobby puked then passed out at a light on newkirk

stunk up the car when his wife started her bitchin

pounding on bobby snorin over the wheel

screaming at the top of her lungs

we got out right there and ran off laughing

thing was we never stopped till we shoulda stopped an hour before

irishmen are easy beauties, tall broad hard muscle soft skin

fair as the first when the air is cool and freshly passing

tan freckles on pale silk and smart eyes lookin at you so warm

that even now you just gotta smile

two three, one I married

he would lift me over his head for the sheer animal joy of his strength and that lust and the taste of our sweat and clams on the half shell with iced reingolds on a beach under a cloudless sky and us so hot running hands over his chest up his arms and through the soft curl of his hair

crawling into one another hangin on for dear life

not here he’d say but I wanted it

he could charm the pants offa pope

he sure charmed the pants offa me

lucky charms

lucky as my luckies

left a taste in me it did

Views: 103

Comment by Foolish Monkey on March 17, 2018 at 9:45am

this poem was published in a poetry journal.  somewhere.  sometime back when.  I have it here but I don't know where it is now.  what does it matter anyway?  I like this poem.  it's all true btw.  it really is.

Comment by Safe Bet's Amy on March 17, 2018 at 10:00am

I smoke the Lucky Strikes and you can keep the Irishmen.  

Irishwomen are mine, however!  LOL  In fact, the lines, "tan freckles on pale silk and smart eyes lookin at you so warm, that even now you just gotta smile" made me get a little tight in the chest about my Irish beauty.  

Comment by Anna Herrington on March 17, 2018 at 10:02am


Comment by Foolish Monkey on March 17, 2018 at 10:03am

you know, I read you in Anna's blog and I had a feeling that was her too.  they have a way, don't they? hugs chica.

Comment by Foolish Monkey on March 17, 2018 at 10:05am

thanks anna.  :)

Comment by koshersalaami on March 17, 2018 at 8:01pm

Beautifully written

Comment by Steel Breeze on March 18, 2018 at 8:05am


Comment by Foolish Monkey on March 18, 2018 at 10:11am

thank you gentlemen.  :D

I'll be tweeking this poem until doomsday.  I absolutely love it because it flawlessly (IMO) speaks to me of a time in brooklyn.  but that brooklyn doesn't exist anymore.  I think there might be some of it around boston but people are different and more combative.   then again - manchester by the sea - I found gave me the same atmospheric sense of destiny and doom.  the irish are nothing if not destiny and doom on the dark end.  a dear friend of mine, a woman born and raised in ireland loved to conclude any adventure or situation with - "we're DOOMED" in the most dramatic fashion. 

Comment by Foolish Monkey on March 19, 2018 at 9:44am

no that time is gone.  was just speaking to a friend who happens to be as irish as patty's pig (as they say).  it's still there in pockets, but overall, what was once is no more.

so I work on this poem and remember rockaway beach (which is actually queens) - but that's the place I'm referring to when I wrote of the beach and clams on the half shell, although year round for clams and calamari, we'd go to randazzo's in sheepshead bay brooklyn - back when it was twelve stools at a counter operation all the fish guys went to, before they moved into the lundy's location.  

brooklyn was big but it a collection of small towns.  now it's city across the river from The City.  it's someone else's city now.  

Comment by Anna Herrington on March 19, 2018 at 9:58am

It's my nieces' city now.

(among the millions of others...)

I have three who live in Brooklyn, are 'ruling the world and stuff' as my funny, weird socks say.... owning the streets and pubs and businesses and their world as you did then, as I did my villages within my city that now is just a big blob of city.

I'm guessing they're making the memories now that likely, when they're older, they'll also bemoan the loss of their world. 

Best soap opera title:  As the World Turns

(no, I've never watched soap operas but gotta' love that title...)

Came back to re-read.

Love it  : )


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