Breaking Out

This poem is dedicated to the obvious divinity of Ashley MacIssac            He gets mad like his daddy told him to            and does violence with violins, bow aimed            to hurt up the skirts of his ancestors,            Punks in the first place those celts famed            for the muse he rapes just 'cause someone has to or...            what? Is talent really so rare?            Who's he kidding? From Sydney to BC Van            his image, an immature mad man            in platforms and bell bottoms confined            to the stage in outrage, an adam            lost in eden without an apple to damn him.            He executes the sacred reels            neck in a guillotine, clean as cabbage            cleaves 'em and leaves 'em to rot,            by the craic in the back of his nose.            Army boots, the roots of rosined hair,            ravage, some savage, hollowed ground. He knows            how no one's got what he's got.            Or does he? Was he ever a simple son of a            whiner some miner's little boy who steals            at night dynamite to put down the john of a            widow Maclean, old and mean, whole deal's            so witty! he thinks: oh shit! he runs, reformed            from that moment on, his future defined.            New York City what a pity he shot            his first week, peeked with curiosity            for sites transvestite, male burlesque he            found underground new lust but never forgot            disgust for whiskey. what kind of freak is he?            Innocence is rage in measures.            The serene at seventeen blurs, the groin stirs            made aware beyond repair how clefs unwind            below the stilt of catholic guilt, how cloistered            enclaves have caved in this Cape Breton mind.            By the riddle of his fiddle posed at nine            will he be absolved of foiled gigs?            He stands accused. He fused today's old ways            two centuries spent blasting down fissures            of winding veins, the sudden pain that stays,            collapsed by coal spat and black lung; ruptures            now cured by generations at leisure.            For a time of return, he stalls            Caught like every son of 'em in that whore hole            the bind of their kind, to take the dole or            sell your native soul to the devil of an oil rig            south of Texas what the heck of that whole sort            of life, of strife does he know? Despoiled pig!            A Ginsberg rant was all he claimed.            He was a raging cursor with assets valued at            one tenth total unpaid taxes. It's been all            a game of "courage or dare" baring genitals            to crowd boos, with no clues on a Cadillac            Seville once Presley's now Ashley’s?            Who can find the bottom line?            He's been alive for 25 but            was it done right and now it means what?            Arse set still in chair he plays perfect style            long familiar tunes. Dancers advance while            at the gate freak seekers slip out of sight.            There will be no show tonight.It's hard to write a poem about the music and the miners of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia without adult language, sorry. I want to thank ctoday for giving me a fresh perspective on this poem.  I don't know if it improved the poem any but it helped me. Written February 19th, 2002 © on Mar 10 2002 12:48 AM PST   0 • 1