Sailing into Dundalk
Posted: December 5th, 2014, 1:29 pm
Sailing into Dundalk
I thought I'd land in Station North
Charles Village, Hamden and cavort
with artsy, fartsy, aging hippies
hot, bespectacled, well-read women;
given I'm a child of the sixties.
Cozy up amongst the learned
hit museums, theaters in Mt Vernon.
At the very least compete
on Federal Hill or Harbor East.
Though, Clarabells there all assume
they are the brightest clownfish in the flume.
But much to my surprise
the compass guides this vessel east
to Dundalk where the word "genteel"
ceases to exist and I have seen,
without a doubt, the beastliest of chicks;
they always seem so pissed.
Their gravel voices croaking from
too many years of smoking
and muffintops are jellyfish in jeans
when Missy doggy-paddles up the stream.
Then why, one asks would someone bask
in such a blasphemy of flesh?
Some say I like to lick the dirty dish...
but Dundalk's where the cargo’s sold
the claws of industry take hold,
where seaman come to hear the sound
of sawing teak and stainless being ground.
Where Maryland’s muscled underbelly hides.
Where Rosie and her rivets might reside.
I'm drawn in like the British with the tide
in search of something lost but still alive.
Here weathered faces wear the years
McHenry’s flag flies when it's clear.
Here VFW’s are joined.
Here, "Hon" was likely coined...
and welding beads are seen as art
where Velvet Elvis hangs his carcass.
Sweat and toil play their parts
in vignettes void of artifice.
This Dundalk, such a deli-cut uncured
watch big-hair diner Dollies flip the bird.
Reality sliced really thick like this? The muse
that baits and hooks my prick, oh shit!
And poetry's down in the loam, ingrown
where “roughly hewn” calls home. Here
they don't talk philosophy and art
but toast the O’s, belch nasty Natty Boh & fart.
And though it is confounding, I feel
comfy in these sticks.
Of course I was half-kidding 'bout the chicks.
I guess my working class genetics linger.
Please pass the haggis, Hon, then pull my finger.
(* When, saw inferred I was talking about our dear departed brother, Dino, I thought it best I switched this to first person to take responsibility and avoid any confusion)
I thought I'd land in Station North
Charles Village, Hamden and cavort
with artsy, fartsy, aging hippies
hot, bespectacled, well-read women;
given I'm a child of the sixties.
Cozy up amongst the learned
hit museums, theaters in Mt Vernon.
At the very least compete
on Federal Hill or Harbor East.
Though, Clarabells there all assume
they are the brightest clownfish in the flume.
But much to my surprise
the compass guides this vessel east
to Dundalk where the word "genteel"
ceases to exist and I have seen,
without a doubt, the beastliest of chicks;
they always seem so pissed.
Their gravel voices croaking from
too many years of smoking
and muffintops are jellyfish in jeans
when Missy doggy-paddles up the stream.
Then why, one asks would someone bask
in such a blasphemy of flesh?
Some say I like to lick the dirty dish...
but Dundalk's where the cargo’s sold
the claws of industry take hold,
where seaman come to hear the sound
of sawing teak and stainless being ground.
Where Maryland’s muscled underbelly hides.
Where Rosie and her rivets might reside.
I'm drawn in like the British with the tide
in search of something lost but still alive.
Here weathered faces wear the years
McHenry’s flag flies when it's clear.
Here VFW’s are joined.
Here, "Hon" was likely coined...
and welding beads are seen as art
where Velvet Elvis hangs his carcass.
Sweat and toil play their parts
in vignettes void of artifice.
This Dundalk, such a deli-cut uncured
watch big-hair diner Dollies flip the bird.
Reality sliced really thick like this? The muse
that baits and hooks my prick, oh shit!
And poetry's down in the loam, ingrown
where “roughly hewn” calls home. Here
they don't talk philosophy and art
but toast the O’s, belch nasty Natty Boh & fart.
And though it is confounding, I feel
comfy in these sticks.
Of course I was half-kidding 'bout the chicks.
I guess my working class genetics linger.
Please pass the haggis, Hon, then pull my finger.
(* When, saw inferred I was talking about our dear departed brother, Dino, I thought it best I switched this to first person to take responsibility and avoid any confusion)
