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Two New Poems

[1]209 words

Charlie Manson (1934–2017)

Well, Charlie Manson’s dead,
just like poor Sharon Tate.
Upon his wrinkled head
above his eyes, the fate,

of his tattooed Swastika
is certain, after so,
so many years. The shiksa,
pale as November snow, 

with her stab wounds still red,
has slammed the gates of hell.
And no, we’ll not forget
for we recall her well.

Old Charlie Manson was
no Krakow Ghetto Jew.
Deranged, demonic laws
left him with a loose screw.

He’d rotted in his cell
and read Saint Paul per chance,
while Roman lived to tell,
though fugitive in France.

Dearest Samantha Jane,
sodomized at thirteen,
forgotten is your pain,
the venom of our spleen.

20 November 2017


Mulholland Drive

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
—Sigmund Freud

No, it was neither Clinton
nor Bleistein with a cigar,
but Weinstein at the bar,
wanking for Quentin,

his shiksa catatonic,
her mouth agape in shock
at the sight of his shmok.
Cynical, ironic,

the movie-maker groaned
and shot his chosen load,
thinking it’s what’s owed
pale starlets bought and owned.

Was he misunderstood,
both horny and Semitic?
Or was it the esthetic
of moguls in Hollywood?

Who cares his deeds were vile?
In therapeutic heaven
with bugger-them-all Kevin,
never will he stand trial.

19 November 2017