poem of the day 04.16.14

cavern club

the place is packed with tourists

doing a ringo starr sing-a-long

and you can buy everything here from matchbooks

to full scale models of the joint

the beatles never played this cavern club

theirs got torn down in the 1970s

while they were making those mediocre solo albums

but a lot of beatles shit is framed on the walls

this isn’t a place for a kindred connection

or to wonder at the spectacle of what once was

this is the place to sing yellow submarine

with packs of day trippers

and business blokes getting drunk after work

maybe buy a cavern club t-shirt on the way out

before you have a pint at lennon’s pub

the quarry bank tavern or the rubber soul on matthew street

there’s no history seeping from the walls

no blood and sweat from 292 fab four performances

just an asshole who recognizes your american accent

who won’t move when you say, excuse me

so you have no recourse but to brush past him

spilling some of his beer

and if you didn’t have to piss so bad

you’d wipe that sour look right off of his face

but you can’t really see him anyway

with the flashbulbs going off at tables full of people

who’ve found their graceland along the mersey

and in the toilet drunk men in suits

or with cameras and fanny packs strapped to their waist

sing octopus’s garden out of key

as the bathroom attendant shuffles back and forth

humming something that isn’t a beatles’ song

trying to douse you with come together cologne

before you head back into the club proper

making sure to slam that motherfucker hard

when he won’t move out of your way again

laugh when half his pint hits the floor and he calls you a cunt

as the whole club begins a john lennon sing-a-long

with a guy on stage

dressed in shorts and a beatles t-shirt

who can’t even get the lyrics to jealous guy

right.