Beatnik Snap

Beatnik Snap

A Poem by Earl Schumacker
"

Quatrain in 14 parts

"

Beatnik Snap


Pale white against the ghostly fog

Smoke curled for lack of oxygen

Black rim glasses hide, head bows

Conceal cool cat eyes of daddy-o

In dark, goatee, groomed and moody

Beret tilted down covers identity

Captures blues wrapped in a sax

Brown paper bags cover booze

Jazz releases notes unknown to claps

Fingers snap approval to the poets silence

Something to be trusted no matter what

Underworld shadows gather dust


A secret spot built on a fog bank conjured up

On a dingy dream found five steps down

A hideaway ten degrees below zero and counting

Leading beyond all cafe dive boundaries


Cold nights survive on hanging tunes

College degrees wall to wall leave hollow marks

Jive time turkeys hold on to hot tea instead

Twilight characters friendly as death reset


Step down in reality to displease history

Bass man puffs his last cigarette

Joint smokers fill up the cavern

Underworld types gather with germs abounding

Fallen ash in trays lose attention

Coffee stains on tables remain

Stale as bread half consumed

Down and dirty with the blues


Tinted in a melancholy stench

Night life rises numb, basement ready

Dim lights permeate the senses

Lays waste to the alley cat man


Smoke rises in a trance to swoon

Turtle necks hold stiff men intact

A band doing hourly sessions Jam

Bass players hammer out shadows

Discord is all that matters

To mimic politics, smoke marijuana

The attraction of the day is on the menu

Curse words say it all

Snap and double snap poetry incognito

Verses flow like painted butter on walls

On melted atomic babies breath powdered bottom

For war, use the toilets next door on the right


Bullets are the flavor of the day

The favorite flavor after blanks

Matchstick men in bazooka suits flirt

The moon turns supersonic jello cold


Elephant dancers run wild man

Suspicious of pigs who shoot first

Ask questions about bacon later

Snap daddy snap on beatnik back


Cool cats know squares from pigs

Cubes are abstractions of night sticks

Never mix with visions of gas lamps

It is a gas man, can you dig it







© 2018 Earl Schumacker


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Added on February 9, 2018
Last Updated on February 14, 2018
Tags: culture, jazz, style, cafe, moody, blues, absract

Author

Earl Schumacker
Earl Schumacker

Atlantic City, NJ



About
B.A. Degree in Literature and Language. I enjoy writing short stories, poetry, novels and keeping up with new scientific discoveries. I enjoy philosophy and Art appreciation. more..

Writing