That night Bledashh sat upright
in the darkest corner
at the Silver Cockerel,
his wide-brimmed Stoffeos pulled low,
shading his eyes,
masking his sangloat,
his left hand resting gently
on the polished pearl grips
of his Clorn .38.
Vastle Imports, LTD. had hired him,
red-faced as pinched pupti
over the third loss
of their precious loads
of Lavender Lyarogi;
three couriers killed,
angry creditors clambering
for the werin bite of that
very rare azure liquor.
In the dimness of the tavern
he kept both eyes peregrine,
watching the latest courier engaging
the owner of the Inn
in light-hearted eliali,
with spiraling peals of graiti wafting
like laughter reptiles, coiling around
the blue cigar smoke that hung
thick near the overhead gas lights,
He had not noticed the midgets perched
on the shoulders of three hooded Kingsh,
who had inconspicuously positioned themselves
beneath the tavern lanterns--
but he was ready for the sudden blackout,
the screams, the revolver shots,
the thunk of several bodies
as he produced a miner’s flare
from his deep overcoat inside pocket,
snapping its head off as it hissed
like an angry anaconda, and the room
was ablaze with blood-red illumination.
The courier was being held by one Kingsh
and the midget astride another
flashed a stilletto, while a second
diminutive thug dropped lithely
to the sawdust-strewn puncheon floor,
reaching for the leather liquor valise.
Bledashh’s alert Clorn .38 barked
like a junkman’s cur,
bellicose and piercing,
six times rapidly, its barrel spitting fire
as a half dozen hunks of brass
were launched into the ochre air--
and the Professor’s minions fell
like tin quail at a carnival gallery.
The mini-assassins were lifted off their feet
as the Clorn’s brass kisses slew
them both with brain shots;
the jeweled stilletto clanged
to a table top, bloodless--
the trio of Kingsh attempted to flee, but
the detective had owl’s eyes
and a sniper’s reflexes, spraying
hollow-point hosannas.
The tallest villian caught one
in the small of his back,
and he dropped hard
like a man at the end of a rope,
smashing a spindly chair in his path--
another hooded hoodlum lost
first his left knee cap,
and then his right eye
as he spun around attempting
to return fire--while the last
of the lethal triumvirate carried
a lead trinket in one shoulder
as he lurched through the open door
to the alley way.
Men yelled like children in a school yard,
frightened yet gleeful, the event transpiring
in a blink, like sucking in frozen air,
as the melee discharges echoed
and ricocheted off peeling flowered wallpaper.
After the lanterns were lit they discovered
Bledashh standing tranquilly tall
in his corner, his Clorn .38 still erect,
puffing whitish smoke like a contented
squire sucking his pipe,
and the wide infectious smile
on his thin face perfectly complimented
the malevolent twinkle in his green eyes.
Glenn Buttkus November 2010
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12 comments:
Nifty piece of noir, Glenn. I adore the word "azure", by the way.
wow, it seems like muses find you and tickles you.
what a powerful piece.
you did an outstanding job here.
xxx
vivid write for sure here... and the image you leave us with in the last stanza is just perfect
This very cool. I wish we had more narrative poems like, mixing fantasy, pulp, and a bit of Borges. There are a few stanzas that I think you might trim, with a few less adjectives. But I hope you don't take that to mean I did not like this, because I really really did. :-)
fascinating glenn...love the story telling ability you have in poetry...very noir feel to it...the midgets on the shoulder the thunk of bodies...nice details...and great end
great imagery, and as brian says, nice detail. i esp like ->
with spiraling peals of graiti wafting
like laughter reptiles, coiling around
the blue cigar smoke that hung
thick near the overhead gas lights,
This is unusual, kind of like Mickey Spillane and Tolkien versified. Some wild neologisms going on there.
hey i been here before...smiles. a nice revisit though as i love a good noir...and can think of few that could do it better sir....
I picture this as a poetic, graphic novel. All you need is to fill in the story with a few hundred more stanzas/pages. It felt like one of those poems that just pours out of you once the inspiration hits.
Man, I loved this whole section:
"In the dimness of the tavern
he kept both eyes peregrine,
watching the latest courier engaging
the owner of the Inn
in light-hearted eliali,
with spiraling peals of graiti wafting
like laughter reptiles, coiling around
the blue cigar smoke that hung
thick near the overhead gas lights"
Laughter reptiles?! Are you serious? That's brilliant!
I'm looking up "eliali" and "graiti" but am having no luck.
And now I'm cracking up over this:
"The mini-assassins were lifted off their feet
as the Clorn’s brass kisses slew
them both with brain shots"
Do you mean "villain" here, or is "villian" another word I don't know? :) ... "The tallest villian caught one"
I really like this part too: "the event transpiring
in a blink, like sucking in frozen air,
as the melee discharges echoed
and ricocheted off peeling flowered wallpaper"
Oh goodness. This is quite the ending. :)
"his Clorn .38 still erect,
puffing whitish smoke like a contented
squire sucking his pipe,
and the wide infectious smile
on his thin face perfectly complimented
the malevolent twinkle in his green eyes"
And now you've sent me back to the beginning: "his left hand resting gently
on the polished pearl grips
of his Clorn .38"
This whole thing is incredible, Glenn. I loved every word. Thank you for sharing this again.
~Shawna
Wow! Enviable write!
Very captivating, like an epic movie all by itself.
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