New Orleans, 1918
Esteemed Mortal:
have you got that hot foot
from Hell?
Do you put the pep
in Pepitone?
Do you rumba like Romano?
Do you dance like the demons
down Pandemonium way?
Or do you flutter like angels—bright and gay?
Me? I like jazz.
I’m fond of swaying hips
and the shimmering sequins of headless flappers.
It’s such a mess sometimes,
but music makes it alright.
Trumpets and clarinets
and all the big brass of Bourbon Street
can’t put the dead Dago back together again.
More’s the pity
that not every home can be the French Quarter;
not every kitchen a bandstand
with the naked and the dead
bouncing to the Tony Spargo beat.
If that ever happens,
and if you ever feel that home swing,
then cut me a corner of your favorite door
and invite me in.
We’ll have neckbones and cheeks.
I’ll be the cook,
and I’ll be the eater.
You can be the dancer—
spinning
twisting
on and on.
Texarkana, 1946
The moonlight –
is so bright,
tonight
as I make you crawl on broken glass.
Does it hurt?
Do the sharp crystals of compacted sand
burn your ass up?
Or do they turn you on?
C’mon, come closer, baby.
Let’s blow that trombone
and sing to
these night beasts
hungry for a little bit of blood—
a little bit o’ action.
Let’s make it a show
for you and me
and the hanging tree.
Your boyfriend don’t mind,
and my gal don’t mind.
It’s all ephemeral, anyway.
So, what’s it going to be?
Me— both white & Negro—
coming with .32 kisses,
or are you just gonna run away
and make me chase you
with Cupid’s arrow
and trousers
that you made so tight?
Honolulu, 1985
Down on the beach
there are whites and blues,
greens and grays.
There is skin turning from pale
to bronze.
You have to love it all.
Roundeye and almond,
younger and older,
uniform and not.
You have to love it all.
On this side of paradise,
there’s no excuse to go lonely.
And yet,
alas,
these hands always end empty.
They are only filled and fulfilled
by pornographic movies
and the big squeeze
that breeds blood-red blooms
at the lagoon and airport.
Yes, on this side of paradise,
you have to have hands.
You must reach underneath the beach
and dig amongst the debris
if you ever want to find your baby:
your baby yellow and white,
blue and purple.
Your pretty, precious baby
bawling in the tropical moonlight
as you play for her one more pornographic picture.
— Arbogast is a neo-pulp writer and the owner of 1325 Publishing. He is a co-editor at the Bizarchives, and his work has appeared in the Bizarchives, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, Futurist Letters, and many more publications. He is the author of seven books, with his latest being THE RETURN OF PATRICK MIDNIGHT.
