Wednesday, April 16, 2014

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


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