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The Lyricist
and His Rock Star.
BY PETER JAY SHIPPY
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I'm eating moussaka at the Greek's
when you step in for smokes with that cat
who comports as your superego.
On the jukebox an a cappella
version of "Only You" makes me woozy—
or is it the stale ouzo? Less and less
my waitress whispers, but more and more
I toss poison darts at that geek
who stares at me from my spoon—boozy
and hung by horny toes, like a fruit bat.
Why sad? Wasn't our love a priori?
Like a socialist on Super Tuesday,
I was forgone—like a superfecta
ticket at Suffolk Downs, worth less and less
furlong by furlong. Your A&R
team took one look at me and cried, "Eek!"
I'm the type who Scrabbles Q with qat.
I'm the stripe who fills songs with doozy
idioms where beggars are choosy
and love is hallowed as a superbug.
I look away and recall Angkor Wat,
where the video for "More & More"
was filmed. I sat under a sacred teak
rewriting beats while you went à deux
with that creep sitcom actor, that A-list
hack who speaks like he fucks—like an Uzi—
rat-a-ta-ta. He called me word freak
when I verbalized in polysemous polysyllables and supercomputer
when I did tips in my head—less and less
as I ate, by then, mostly solo—the rat's
gnat
or edo-mala to his à la mode.
You text messed the end to our amore and more
powwow to you and all that are newsy!
Don't bah for me, I have my superglue
and weekly enemas with Irish leeks.
Now I write, more or less, for an oozy
Osaka band that sounds like gats à gogo—
a supergroup. Wait 'til you hear our squeak.
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