Joey Cloudy online

True Bromance

He was my first hipster hat on his silver head, harmonica

in hand 2002, 50 year old Mike on the mic

Clay man takes the stage at the velvet hookah,

a genuine too cool for Sunday school house rocking stray cat

scatting our grateful dead white and blues period.

This is not another elegy or a little death song.

This is a poem for the living beyond the banal expectations

Of our urbane existence in legendary leagues beneath genteel men,

Drunken brawls in Japanese bars my man

Still silky smooth talks his way out of a Tokyo jail

Milo mythic monster rockstar poet reading travelogues

That are unusually lost as luggage in transition

In resurrected Dresden bar where a wall and the old city

Are now ashen ghost historical markers of madmen.

Bitta zien halt mien hier!

This is an inside joke we share

The sick humour explaining why this is the only phrase

In German that I know.

and who was it that led the drunken charge

out of a Naples villa

across the orange groove

into the Mediterranean darkness

an all American knight errant.

But that was not a lance that you held

nor a dragon that you saw no not even a windmill

That is your cock in your hand

and that is the coliseum your pissing on tonight

while you graffiti the ancient stones simultaneously

mark your territory with all the patriotic swagger

of astronauts planting old glory on the moon

And even though you and I both know

This time it wasn’t Milo still It might have been.

But that’s neither here nor there

You see you’re not in Spain

you’re in Italy old friend

Go home Milo

you’re drunk daddy o.

And hit me with one more poem.