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Farrell Dyde
D  A  N  C  E    T  H  E  A  T  R  E

More Lives On Ice (2006)


            There was a young girl
            Young being relative
            Who wondered
            What to do
            With her life
            She was a vine
            Who needed a wall
            To grow against
            She wanted a man
            Who would help her
            Polish herself
            Into an exquisite stone
            So, she waited.

            Maybe it was Beauty

            Darting quality
            In her eyes
            Slender like a leaf’
            Perhaps, she was wind blown
            Or maybe she just blew my mind
            She just stayed there and stayed there
            Long after she was gone.

            Stirred not Shaken

            He was a man from New Jersey
            He could be procured,
            Stirred by the blond sitting next to him
            He did not know her
            But spoke to her nevertheless
            She could not care less
            But he was not shaken
            By rejection
            Knowing that he could
            Outsource her to India
            To eat her meals off a banana leaf
            Yes, he knew he could leave her alone.
            That was his job.

            Post Modern

            Try to rebel
            You’re part of the system
            Be outrageous
            You’re part of the system
            Make bad art
            You’re part of the system
            Invent a new toilet
            You’re part of the system
            Try to break out
            Of habitual behavior
            Its reality TV
            You are trapped
            You are trapped
            You are trapped.


            She was a prefect specimen
            Except for her bowl like belly
            Which must have been mostly
            Composed of water retained
            From her fondness for beer
            She carried herself smoothly
            From one spot to another
            a smooth sailing ship gliding along
            On a mirror-like body of water
            I wondered what she would be like
            Without that belly, but decided
            That was what made her human
            Without it she would have been
            An empty vessel
            Through which the water of life
            Did not flow.


            She wondered
            To herself
            “Am I attractive?
            Do men like me?”
            She asked this
            Because she knew
            That she was like
            A donut
            There was a hole
            In her center
            Where there should be something
            There was no there there
            And after every
            All night sex binge
            She found
            That she was
            Exceptionally hungry.

            Race On So Racy

            They were so chatty
            So catty
            little girls dressed up
            A night on the town
            Evening gowns
            By tight halter tops
            And bottoms like skin
            So very modern and sinful
            And not aware
            That the stares
            They garnered
            Had been going on
            For centuries
            That they were part
            Of a continuum
            The furtherance
            Of the human race.

            Stop the Music

            The din was deafening
            Acoustics designed
            To inspire insanity
            Young blossoms bleeding
            the hipness
            Of it all
            Male buds
            Bursting with exuberant
            Outlays of cash
            Everyone fashionably dressed
            Trussed up like turkeys
            At Thanksgiving
            Waiting to be served
            As the main dish
            Between designer sheets
            As soon as the beat of the blaring music
            came to a stop.

            Finding One’s Voice

            I was resolute
            No more
            Chutes and ladders
            No more
            Hiding out
            In rest rooms
            At gas stations
            No more
            Life’s petty problems
            Watching Morning TV
            Dr. Phil and Opra
            Tinny voices
            Telling me what was wrong
            With my life
            I knew what was wrong
            I was singing my life
            Off key.


            Her most remarkable
            Was that she
            Was young
            And unsung
            A fresh track
            To be laid down
            No sad music
            Over years
            Of defeat
            Her feats
            Were in the future
            And if she was lucky
            No one would
            Butcher her life
            Into small pieces
            Of meat
            Sold at the lowest
            Possible price.

            Soft Sex

            In lieu of sex
            A night of camaraderie
            Was called for
            That tinkled
            Like chilled champagne glasses
            No vanity
            No need to explain
            One’s position
            In life
            Just simple acceptance
            Of faults and foibles
            Among friends
            Who had known each other
            Long enough
            To understand
            That the ends
            Justified the means.

            In the Aftermath

            There is many a twisty
            Turn in the road
            Slick spots that
            Turn a sports car on a dime
            360 degrees from a good time
            To blood spilled needlessly
            Amidst the shattered glass
            Of the windshield
            A pretty girl’s life
            savaged in a spit second.
            Or a job lost
            Feisty battles
            with boss, lover, daughter
            moments when beauty
            is slipping away
            knowing deep inside
            that nobody is going to help you
            so you beat blindly against all
            that seems to be pushing against you
            keeping from you
            what you feel is yours by
            some heavenly decree
            it may be another human being
            that you cut down in one secret violent attack
            smashing her just as surely
            as that sports car smashed that other beauty
            you don’t care
            for you
            it is just your duty
            your right despite the damage
            to another person’s life.

            The L Birds

            Birds of a feather
            But different breeds
            Seed they ate
            Not the same
            Song they sang
            Went by a different
            Flying around
            In rarefied air
            Huddled together
            This day on the ground
            Waiting for the sound
            Of beating wings
            Or maybe hearts
            That would beat faster
            Within their bony cages
            Female rages put aside
            Pecking order ignored
            As the adored ones paraded by
            New entrants to this kingdom
            Ruled by drama queens.

            Under Water

            I wanted nothing more
            Than to love her
            Kept at arm’s length
            Whatever strength
            I had
            Was drained
            By a desire unfulfilled
            I persisted in a quiet quest
            Feeling like an unwanted guest
            At someone else’s wedding
            Knowing that bedding
            Her down
            Would eventually drown me.

            No Kidding

            An artist’s soul
            But, no talent
            No desire
            And a life fraught
            With thought
            But no realization
            The music
            In his head
            Stayed there
            Despair a habit
            Now growing old
            He lived with children
            And hated the sound
            Of their singing voices.


            Easily one
            Of the most beautiful women
            You would ever see
            On a suicide watch
            Black eye
            A badge of honor
            Her entrée to the hell
            Of her own creation
            Her elation
            At being brutalized
            More satisfying than sex.

            A Small Grief

            A situation
            Best described
            As bizarre
            Woman training
            A dachshund puppy
            On a patch of lawn
            Run down apartment complex
            and busy street
            framing what should have been sweet
            yet, it struck one watching
            as a slow march toward
            a city, a country in ruins.

            Blood on Ice

            Things were copasetic
            In the hood
            Lesbian war prevailed
            Veiled threats
            Now faces nicked, scared
            Fight for territory
            Lipsticks devolving
            Into dykes with age
            More drama
            At the bar
            Than on a stage
            Beauties beaten
            And for what?
            Female supremacy
            At issue
            Males used as mere tissue
            To wipe away the tears.

            Rise to the Top

            Star struck princess
            No inkling
            Of the stinking
            Dregs of humanity
            That huddle like a stack
            Of old newspapers
            Saturated after a heavy rain
            Bleeding print upon the pavement
            Standing in her way
            Every hurdle must be passed
            Every cunning eye
            Winked at
            If she blinks
            Forced back to go
            And no collecting $200.

            Dance to the Beat

            Blood vessels
            In my face
            Had broken
            Once pure skin
            Now, but a token
            Of a debauched life
            Lived on the run
            Like a gun
            To the head
            Escaping responsibility
            An endgame
            Embracing it
            Just the same
            The inevitability
            Of death
            Sour breath
            After throwing up
            All the cookies
            Of the night before
            A pinafore
            To the slow
            The drum beating,
            Beating, beating, beating.

            Alley Cat

            Her hair fell
            Just right
            Framing an angel
            That belied
            Her street smarts
            Maybe her heart
            Had been broken
            Maybe not
            But, it took a lot
            For her
            To trust a man
            Yet, every man
            Loved her.


            Kate Hepburn said
            “I want it all.”
            And all
            Is what we all
            To be upon a stage
            Or in a film
            All eyes upon us
            An imaginary public
            Always present
            Watching every minute
            Every subtle move
            Every flush of the toilet
            Or casual brush back
            Of a lock of tinted hair
            To have the gift
            The short shrift
            Of being doomed
            To be an artist.

            More than Mundane

            This is a gentleman
            Of the old school
            Following every moral rule
            His knuckles early broken
            By a measurement tool
            His stern father
            Beyond reproach
            His mother
            Sanctified by God
            His life proscribed
            Not by poets
            But, by those
            Who favored
            Protective boundaries
            Placed around
            Every errant behavior
            His only savior
            A rebellious streak
            That banged against
            The meek and unpretentious
            A bossy noise
            Most bothersome
            But, transparent
            For this was a man
            Who only wanted love
            The touch of a woman’s hand
            And a simple life
            Just a cut
            Above the ordinary.

            Not to be Rebuked

            Buzz cut
            And brutal
            A Feudal lord’s attitude
            Toward keeping
            The proletariat
            In their place
            His face a hammer
            To nail down
            Anything sticking up
            Abrupt, bizarre
            Best dealt with
            From afar
            He liked to get in
            Your face
            His only saving grace
            Was working in a caring occupation.

            Three Heads

            Once there was a man
            With three heads,
            The brain was divided equally among the three heads.
            But only one brain.
            Whenever a decision had to be made
            The heads would always disagree.
            The man has been sitting in the same chair
            For over 80 years.

            Holding Court
            I am not unknowable
            Said the Queen
            As she sat upon the throne.
            “Please send in the next peasant.”
            A shrill trumpet announced the entrance
            Of a man who appeared
            To be both a heathen and completely unkempt.
            The queen said to the man:
            “Do you know me?”
            The man replied, “No, You are too far above me.”

            Retro Love

            We did not know it
            When we were young.
            We had fun together.
            Myriad golden cans
            Of Coors,
            The elixir of choice.
            Chugged down
            Our needy thighs rubbing up
            Against the open trunk
            Of some Daddy’s car.
            We were in the moment.
            A moment that would
            Never end.
            It was love.
            But, we did not know it

            Hat Trick

            Father never
            Wore a hat
            Fear of growing bald
            Wide ears
            Pinned back with Scotch tape
            When young
            Vanity born
            Of a mother’s yearning
            For perfection
            An infection
            Inflicted and
            Sung tunelessly
            A mantra surviving into
            The boy, now man
            Was appalled
            Said: “Now is now.
            That was then.”
            Still, he never
            Wore a hat.

            Something to Talk About

            Dainty feet
            Tucked longingly
            Into fuck-me pumps
            Blue jeans
            Low on both ends
            Tongues panting
            Ranting about
            What could have been,
            Should have been, would have been
            Shut out
            Not enough clout
            To overcome
            A husband’s protective shout
            “Hand’s off wanna-be louts.”

            God Damn Apple

            Delightful posies
            When young
            Venus fly traps
            When jilted
            Wilted flowers
            Whom bees avoid
            Annoyed at Mother Nature
            Gone askew
            Screwed by inequity
            Harsh reality
            Darwin at his best
            Adam always knew
            Eve would look her best
            Whenever he beckoned
            With a puffed up chest.


            Fresh face boy
            With a skin infection
            Fresh faced girl
            With a rump
            Designed to seduce
            Fresh faced boy
            Knocked for a loop
            Before his brain
            He detoured into a dead end
            Her end irresistible
            His end
            Raw meat
            Sautéed on the grill.
            Both got want they wanted
            What’s the harm?
            Why the alarm?
            At the new baby’s cry.

            Wistful Daughter

            I made a shopping list
            something was missing
            maybe Daddy's kiss
            when I was a wee thing
            Now I sing
            a different tune
            let my husband
            sleep til noon
            on Father's Day
            Daddy's gone
            it will never be the same
            Now, I am a woman
            with a different name.

            Flip Flop Generation

            No right
            No wrong
            No love songs
            Everybody for sale
            Like females
            Capri pants
            Shooting a terrorist
            Not a taboo
            Bird Flu
            Won’t help
            The only yelp heard
            Is at the price of gas
            How long will this

            Perfect Pink

            She required
            Special sugar
            On all her drinks
            Both at the center
            And the edges
            Of her life
            Everything clothed
            In the fabric
            Of Nirvana
            This was the shop keeper
            You wanna be.

            Face Time

            He was a man
            Whose name
            I could never quite remember
            When he was there
            He was never there
            Not a nebbish
            Not a man who
            Relished life
            He was just a blank face
            Who occupied an empty space.

            In Charge

            The hard beauty
            Of her face
            The two prominent bumps
            On her chest
            Her demeanor
            Her carriage
            Suggested manager
            She was in charge
            No raging bull
            Could dislodge her
            Efficiency bled
            From her pores
            This was truly
            A boring woman
            For whom romance
            Was but a tedious enterprise.

            A Man’s Life

            To be perfectly honest
            We don’t care
            How nice you are
            We only care
            About fucking you
            And how big
            Your tits are
            And if your lips
            will last all night
            And if you think
            My dick is not
            Big enough
            Then go
            Just go
            And get fucked on
            Your own dime.

            Short Order

            The man had
            A big heart
            Till it gave out
            Hot dogs with onions
            On a daily basis
            He had relished life
            His wife died young
            He had stopped loving her
            She wasn’t his type
            He had been
            A wayward child
            And as an adult
            He lived a wild life
            Fife and drums
            Are now appropriate
            At his funeral
            So start the hype.

            Down Mandy Lane

            Not a sundown girl
            Heart bruised
            Not beaten
            Defeat not really
            Part of her vocabulary
            Her own self
            A sanctuary
            Where she could
            Build strength
            For the next victory
            Feet on sold land
            A Mandy kind of life

            Truth or Beauty

            Came without asking
            Her time behind the bar
            A complex
            Of the many facets
            Of her life
            A very pretty girl with desire
            To make good
            Overwhelming beauty
            Almost stood
            In her way.

            Get Along Little Doggie

            Every cowboy
            Needs a side kick
            Gene had Andy
            Roy had Pat
            Cisco had Poncho
            But, a modern loner
            Like me
            Needs a Lesbian
            By his side
            To buffer the winds
            Of fate
            A gal attractive
            And nice to touch
            But no desire
            To lurch into
            Matters of great
            No petty arguments
            Just a nice even ride
            Down the bumpy
            Road of life.

            Charlie Light

            No lush
            This Aaron
            His errand
            Into the maze
            Charlie’s delight
            Bruised by love
            Skirting disaster
            At every moment
            On both sides
            A night of love
            Will not last
            But what a blast
            Of pure white light.

            Elementary, My Dear

            He was a studious man
            Not revealing much
            His eyes
            Always searching
            For him
            Not being cool
            Was a school
            In and of itself.

            On the Mark

            Not quite
            A Beau brummel
            A seducer
            Dandy, randy
            On the hunt
            More apt
            To take the collar
            An 0-fer
            Than most would think
            Because he was
            Not willing
            To sink
            To the lowest
            Common denominator.


                  © Farrell Dyde 2006


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