Personal Ad

[vagantes]

Melanie here- blonde and twenty.
I wear tight tops and a short, short skirt.
Nice personality, but a bit of a flirt.
Money's not essential, but I hope you've plenty.
Looking for a meet so send me your addy.
Prefer mature, so come be my daddy.

[vagantes]

Melanie - hi. My name is Carstairs.
I'm slightly embarassed, but your ad
Was of interest and I'd like to meet.
I spend my time doing research;
At the moment it's Schopenhauer.
So, we could have a coffee at the Library.
Oh, yes; I'm aged about fifty
And I would meet all expenses.
Can we say about one tomorrow?
And we can discuss matters further
As to needs and requirements etc., etc.
I would say much more, but need reassurance.
Regards and best wishes from Johnny

[vagantes]

Johnny, you sound so shy and so sweet.
I look forward with pleasure to our afternoon meet.
I'll wear my white blouse and a black pleated skirt
Did I mention that I am the world's biggest flirt?
Do you like heavy make-up? I 'll look how you wish:
Shy schoolgirl or tart - simply write out a list.
My fee for the hour will be one hundred cash.
Please be discreet in public and do nothing rash.
Can I ask if you're vanilla? Do you know what I mean?
I'm experienced in most tastes, but scrupulously clean.
I do hope we can play games about older and younger
And that I can thoroughly satisfy your sexual hunger.

[vagantes]

I shall put on my smartest suit, saying thanks
For this morning of promissory sunshine.
It's nearly lunchtime and the streets
Are full of young girls smoking their cigarettes,
While looking out for their teacher (Miss Jamieson)
Who is sure not to approve of their behaviour.
Or their skirts which are far too short for the weather.
Sitting now in the cafeteria waiting for Melanie
Reading Schopenhauer's "Studies in Pessimism,"
I notice a pale redhead (about fortyish and approachable)
Eating her sandwich and marking what looks to be essays.
Could this be Miss Jamieson? She looks up and smiles.
"I'm Johnny Carstairs," I say. And she, " I'm Helen Jamieson,"
And crosses her smooth long legs under her tight skirt
As Melanie clips into view crossing the floor of the cafeteria.

[breathtest]

I am astounded...i have never read anything like this before. It is quite brilliant and definitely something new and fresh.

[vagantes]

Like you, I had a daughter once - bonnie and blithe.
She walked out one evening dressed to the nines,
And simply never came back. They found her body
Round by the graveyard. The one on the headland,
Overlooking the sea, where the kittiwakes circle,
Screaming like tortured souls over dead men's graves.
She wore no clothes and her legs were splayed apart
With a bottle broken and jagged, jammed in deep.

I had a daughter once. I watched her play;
Sent her off to school, dried her tears, held her tight
And tried to keep her from harm. She mixed with a bad crowd
And had too much money to be doing an honest job.
The police say she walked the streets and sold sex for cash.
She was still my daughter and she didn't deserve what happened.

They've not caught the bastard, and he'll do it again.
Like you I had a daughter once- bonnie and blithe.
So pray it's not yours he comes for with his murdering mind
In the middle of a normal, sunny suburban day.

[vagantes]

Kneeling on the grass, which is wet,
Soaked through with blood and matter;
Therefore praying amongst these graves for forgiveness
My hands reeking with those women's pain.

There have been three more since the first,
Now almost five long years ago.
Each one the same - slaughtered and bled
Each one having met someone to trade
Themselves for continuance, which
Being now forever denied.
We must bait the trap to bring an end,
To find the closing point of a mad world.
I'm sweet Sergeant Jill set up to deceive.
Melanie's the name I'll use in remembrance.

I'm Superintendent Charles in charge of this squad.
I have problems with drink and my life is a mess;
The darkness surrounds me it waits to engulf;
Overwhelms the bright shining lights of my youth.

I'm Liz the Lesbian -Melanie's mentor;
Older and wiser I watch from behind,
Writing everything down as I see it unfold.
I could be you the reader as you glance at this page.

[vagantes]

Helen Jamieson does cross her legs rather well,
But Melanie looks cuter as she comes closer.
"A friend of mine I promised to meet" he says,
And Helen dips her head staring at the blank walls.
"Perhaps another time" he says as he walks away.
"Was that your friend"? she hears Melanie squeak.
"Not really" he mumbles his neck flushing red.
Is this my sort of thing he wonders as Melanie
Sits down at his table her skirt riding high,
While Miss Jamieson drives off in her car
The windscreen blurred by her tears.

[vagantes]

"Timor mortis conturbat me,"
Sang blonde Melanie to Johnny Carstairs,
As they walked around the headland,
Beetling out over the wild unruly sea.

On her knees deep in the heather,
His hands clasped tight behind her head,
Soft, moist, red, swollen lips half-opened,
Tongue gently teasing him erect.

Is a sin done ignorantly still a sin?
Are sins different, one from the other?
Can wrong things be done for the right reasons?
Do wrong acts spring from inner defect?
Should sins be purged through suffering?
Is punishment by others justified to expiate?

"Timor mortis conturbat me,"
Chanted from the open church
Trickling out into the graveyard
Gleaming dully in the yellow mist.
As the two shadows move together,
Crouched behind the gravestones
Melanie's protectors watch and wait.
Timor mortis conturbat me.

[vagantes]

I was recently musing on Melville's short story "Bartleby the Scrivener," which is about a writer who has decided that he prefers not to please the public, and thought how dead-letter-like this poem has become as the words spin out against the blank walls like those surrounding Melville's character.

I shall the tale unfold after a decent interval.

[AuntShecky]

Melville's short story "Bartleby the Scrivener," which is about a writer who has decided that he prefers not to please the public


Are you sure the story is about this?

Aside from that, the idea of your personal ad cycle of verse is a promising one. There are, however, some rough spots in the pieces containing meter and rhyme.

[vagantes]

Bartleby is a writer - is he not. He copies. His colleagues please some of the time and not for the rest of the time. Bartleby decides that he prefers not to copy - ie not to write. Melville, himself, decided not to produce works that the public demanded. Bartleby is surrounded by walls. He works on Wall Street. The walls are experience that we cannot see through. Bartleby decides that he can no longer write to order until he has seen through the walls. He dies in the Tombs almost walled in.

Could false rhyme and metre be a deliberate reflection of the character?

[vagantes]

Come, walk with me amongst the dead,
And we shall no more the pleasures prove.
There's Jack and Kate who are no more
And Susan, too, who lived so long.

A sudden scream rent the cool night air
And figures rushed from all around.
It was not Melanie, she still was there
Kneeling in shadow amongst the tombs.

A body fresh from life lies huddled nude
The 'tecs are gathered round, as if in prayer.
Lights blaze from the darkness reflecting back
The unseeing eyes of a broken ravaged corpse.

Now Lesbian Liz and fat Charles come running fast;
Their plot's gone wrong, all's upsides-down,
Who is the killer that stalks these girls?
And kills beneath the noses of police?

[vagantes]

In front of us is the sea (once called "The Geman Ocean"),
Stretching away flatly, (because the wind is off the land),
Into a gray horizon. From bay to bay (some seven miles across)
Stretches flat hard sand, where long-ago, now dead racers
Drove their cars to determine the quickest and the best,
While hundreds watched as the fine rain came down.
Cliffs rise steeply to the left (Cleveland being thus descriptive)
There on the green sward undulating gently as a lover's caress.
A bare-armed woman watches her children play, as at her back
The bruised and battered body is examined in the churchyard.
And overhead from the church tower rising out of the mist and rain
A falcon screams its hate across the cold and desolate place of death.