Genre Redux challenge by metaphoracle
Fraser/Kowalski, 1077 words, PG
Shamelessly inspired by/including the words of T. S. Eliot. Pastiche-ish.
The Love Song of S. Ray Kowalski
Llorando
De cara a la pared
Se para la ciudad
Llorando
Y no hay más,
Muero quizás
Ha! Dónde estás
Soñando
De cara a la pared
Se quema la ciudad
Soñando
Sin respirar
Te quiero amor
Te quiero amor
Rezando
De cara a la pared
Se hunde la ciudad
Rezando
Santa María
Santa María
Santa María
Muriendo
Let's just go then, you and me,
Where the northern lights fight it out above us
Like boxers duking it out in a ring;
Let's just go, where there are no streets
Just us freaks
And restless nights in tents
And spaghetti cooked over an open fire:
Following the hand of this Franklin guy
Of dubious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
C'mon, don't ask, "What is it?"
Let's just go and fuckin' --
In Kugluktuk the people come and go
Talking of Pierre Trudeau.
The dumb wolf-dog that rubs his back against my sleeping bag,
The dumb wolf-dog that rubs his muzzle against my shoulders
Licked his tongue into the corners of my ears,
Lingered on the hollow of my neck,
Let snow from the roof fall on his back
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled at my feet, and fell asleep.
And, you know, there's gonna be time
For the dumb wolf-dog that walks next to the sled,
Rubbing his back on the damn tent-poles;
There's gonna be time, there's gonna be time
To prepare a smile for the people we don't meet;
There's gonna be time to forget murder and hate
And time for honest work and days with hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before I choke down pemmican and tea.
In Kugluktuk the people come and go
Talking of Pierre Trudeau.
And, you know, there will be time
To wonder, "Do I Dare?" and "Do I dare?"
Time to look at the mirror and stare
At the receding hairline I know is there
[You will say: "It's full-bodied and bushy, Ray."]
My winter coat, my collar turned up firmly to the chin,
My layers of sweaters and sweat shirts and underwear
[You will say: "It's because you lack a layer of subcutaneous fat."]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
Cuz I've known them all already, known them all:--
I've known the nights, days, afternoons,
I've measured out my life with Smarties and coffee spoons;
I know the sound of dying on the street
Beneath the music from a nearby club
So how should I presume?
And I've known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix me in a calculated gaze,
And when I'm begging for it, sprawling, wet with sin,
When I'm pinned and wriggling on the wall
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I've known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it the lack of a dress
That makes me such a mess?
Arms that lay on a table, so soft they make my skin crawl.
And then should I presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I've gone at night through lonely streets
And watched the smoke that rises from cigarettes
Of lonely men in t-shirts, leaning against bricks?
I shoulda been a contender
Dancing my way around rings, not floors.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep…tired…or it …uh…lingers,
Stretched on the ground, with you here next to me.
Should I, after tea and meat and ice
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
Cuz though I've wept and starved, wept and begged,
Though I've seen my head [not bald like Vecchio] brought in on a platter,
I'm no profit-and it's no big deal;
I've seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I've seen the Bookman take my wife, and snicker,
And, no joke, I was afraid.
And it would've been worth it, after all,
After the snow, the pemmican, the tea,
Among the Inuit, and some talk of you and me,
It would've been worthwhile,
To've bitten it off with a smile,
To've squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some d-u-m question,
To say: "I'm Houdini, back from the dead,
C'mon I'll tell you-I'm gonna tell you all"-
If he, setting a pillow by his head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And it would've been worth it, after all,
It would've been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and the dog sleds and the icy streets,
After the stories, after the tea, after the boots that leave snow prints on the floor-
And this, and so much more?-
It's impossible to say just what I mean!
But it's like
It would've been worthwhile
If he, fluffing a pillow or folding a sheet,
And turning to the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am not Steve McQueen, nor was meant to be;
I'm a cop, gone undercover as someone else
To save a life, solve a case or two,
Partner the Mountie, the freak (but my freak),
Differential, glad to be of use,
Polite, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of lots of words, but a bit obtuse;
At times, you know, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, a fool.
I grow cold... I grow cold...
I'm gonna wear these long johns til they grow mold.
Am I gonna spike my hair? Do I dare eat caribou?
I'm gonna wear red union suits and walk on snowshoes.
I've heard the Mounties singing, "When I'm calling you--"
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I've seen them riding horseback on the street
A sea of red coats and brown hats
When the wind blows the snow across their backs.
We've made our northwest passage to the sea
By sled dogs dusted by snowflakes, white and brown
Til human voices wake us, and we drown.
Shamelessly inspired by/including the words of T. S. Eliot. Pastiche-ish.
The Love Song of S. Ray Kowalski
Llorando
De cara a la pared
Se para la ciudad
Llorando
Y no hay más,
Muero quizás
Ha! Dónde estás
Soñando
De cara a la pared
Se quema la ciudad
Soñando
Sin respirar
Te quiero amor
Te quiero amor
Rezando
De cara a la pared
Se hunde la ciudad
Rezando
Santa María
Santa María
Santa María
Muriendo
Let's just go then, you and me,
Where the northern lights fight it out above us
Like boxers duking it out in a ring;
Let's just go, where there are no streets
Just us freaks
And restless nights in tents
And spaghetti cooked over an open fire:
Following the hand of this Franklin guy
Of dubious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
C'mon, don't ask, "What is it?"
Let's just go and fuckin' --
In Kugluktuk the people come and go
Talking of Pierre Trudeau.
The dumb wolf-dog that rubs his back against my sleeping bag,
The dumb wolf-dog that rubs his muzzle against my shoulders
Licked his tongue into the corners of my ears,
Lingered on the hollow of my neck,
Let snow from the roof fall on his back
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled at my feet, and fell asleep.
And, you know, there's gonna be time
For the dumb wolf-dog that walks next to the sled,
Rubbing his back on the damn tent-poles;
There's gonna be time, there's gonna be time
To prepare a smile for the people we don't meet;
There's gonna be time to forget murder and hate
And time for honest work and days with hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before I choke down pemmican and tea.
In Kugluktuk the people come and go
Talking of Pierre Trudeau.
And, you know, there will be time
To wonder, "Do I Dare?" and "Do I dare?"
Time to look at the mirror and stare
At the receding hairline I know is there
[You will say: "It's full-bodied and bushy, Ray."]
My winter coat, my collar turned up firmly to the chin,
My layers of sweaters and sweat shirts and underwear
[You will say: "It's because you lack a layer of subcutaneous fat."]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
Cuz I've known them all already, known them all:--
I've known the nights, days, afternoons,
I've measured out my life with Smarties and coffee spoons;
I know the sound of dying on the street
Beneath the music from a nearby club
So how should I presume?
And I've known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix me in a calculated gaze,
And when I'm begging for it, sprawling, wet with sin,
When I'm pinned and wriggling on the wall
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I've known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it the lack of a dress
That makes me such a mess?
Arms that lay on a table, so soft they make my skin crawl.
And then should I presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I've gone at night through lonely streets
And watched the smoke that rises from cigarettes
Of lonely men in t-shirts, leaning against bricks?
I shoulda been a contender
Dancing my way around rings, not floors.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep…tired…or it …uh…lingers,
Stretched on the ground, with you here next to me.
Should I, after tea and meat and ice
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
Cuz though I've wept and starved, wept and begged,
Though I've seen my head [not bald like Vecchio] brought in on a platter,
I'm no profit-and it's no big deal;
I've seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I've seen the Bookman take my wife, and snicker,
And, no joke, I was afraid.
And it would've been worth it, after all,
After the snow, the pemmican, the tea,
Among the Inuit, and some talk of you and me,
It would've been worthwhile,
To've bitten it off with a smile,
To've squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some d-u-m question,
To say: "I'm Houdini, back from the dead,
C'mon I'll tell you-I'm gonna tell you all"-
If he, setting a pillow by his head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And it would've been worth it, after all,
It would've been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and the dog sleds and the icy streets,
After the stories, after the tea, after the boots that leave snow prints on the floor-
And this, and so much more?-
It's impossible to say just what I mean!
But it's like
It would've been worthwhile
If he, fluffing a pillow or folding a sheet,
And turning to the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am not Steve McQueen, nor was meant to be;
I'm a cop, gone undercover as someone else
To save a life, solve a case or two,
Partner the Mountie, the freak (but my freak),
Differential, glad to be of use,
Polite, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of lots of words, but a bit obtuse;
At times, you know, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, a fool.
I grow cold... I grow cold...
I'm gonna wear these long johns til they grow mold.
Am I gonna spike my hair? Do I dare eat caribou?
I'm gonna wear red union suits and walk on snowshoes.
I've heard the Mounties singing, "When I'm calling you--"
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I've seen them riding horseback on the street
A sea of red coats and brown hats
When the wind blows the snow across their backs.
We've made our northwest passage to the sea
By sled dogs dusted by snowflakes, white and brown
Til human voices wake us, and we drown.