“The Dead Celebrity Cocktail Lounge”
In a netherworld of eternal nights,
The Dead Celebrity Cocktail Lounge sets
within its murky depths, the stage for yet
another act beneath its neon lights.
Nina Simone’s piano they replace
with guitars and mics; her solo ended.
It’s hard to run a lounge that’s attended
by those who nightly drink and also grace
that same stage–yet it works. Jimi and Jan
tend bar; there are drinks passed round. Martinis
and shots-they disappear like Houdinis,
as Hendrix holds the mob’s attention span
with variations on his famous tricks,
Joplin adjusts her maladjusted bun
of stringy brown hair, not to be outdone
by his performance–she chews swizzle sticks
as his feet perform feats unhygienic;
they mix drinks, change place settings, and break through
a new status quo. A bar so strange. Who
thinks it’s sanitary? Cacophonic
sounds echo meanwhile from the abandoned
stage. Audio being tested, Janice
eyes the mic just like a Praying Mantis
eyes its prey. Soulful melody unplanned
erupts as she leaps across the bar, not
waiting for the test to be done, and she
shakes her hair loose, and runs onstage–a bee
to honey. Jimi knows tonight’s her spot
anyway. Tomorrow is his solo
with his guitar. They will do a duo
afterwards, no hard feelings. Their pseudo-
rivalry lost to time, tunes, and tempo.
Smoke clouds drift, generated throughout the
room by the exhalations of humans
from every era. Through the haze, fuming,
each cigarette, each pipe, each cigar a
glowing red eye in the dimness. No one
seems to mind as long as the speaker works.
Janice dances with twirls and whirls and jerks;
she’s heedless, unworried that it’s been done
before. What’s more, when they hold Poetry
Slams, the Shelleys hold hands, recite their planned
rhymed words without one cough; a promised land
found within their eyes. Ingenuity
not confined to poems alone, but drinks
as well. Alcohol and opium mixed
–laudanum–preached to each free love amidst
the hungry, thirsting crowd. And Mary winks
to her freethinking spouse. It’s rather sweet
that after all their years together, they
still have magic. A marital display
when tending bar, moving to the quick beat
of words and sound, orders filled, they’re thrilled to
be around each other. Mistakes have been
put behind. Other times, the darkened den
silences them into wild watching who
next mounts the stage. A young man, blonde D.A.
haircut pulled smoothly back from his high cheek-
bones and blazing eyes may begin to speak
on The Method and acting in a play.
A full-lipped platinum blonde beauty with lips
the color of rose, may rise singing, her
voice ringing loud and long. A performer
in a billowing white dress onstage, hips
swaying softly as she exits to read
Shakespeare by the flickering candlelight
at her table. There, her companion’s white
hair seems to fly from his scalp at full speed,
the shimmering lights caught in each stray hair.
Each wrinkle he wears deeply cut within
his paper skin, yet a great youthful grin
begins, while watching her his old eyes flare.
As Jan finishes her set, the quiet
descends upon the crowded room. Silence
falls like a heavy curtain. The giant’s
midnight mane, baby blues, and a riot
of rhinestones adorning his sparkling
outfit–outshine shining spotlight. The King
has arrived. Rhythm rings, he starts to sing
Hound Dog. He sways his wide hips, hearkening
to the voices of his fans. He shakes and
quakes, his own voice quivers as he croons Love
Me Tender. Smiles and tears. He stands above
his audience as a man, proud and grand.
So many more mount the stage, work the bar,
so far beyond our home world. The artist
once known as Prince, and Bowie, guitarists
and comedians taken past our star,
its yellow glow- dim memory in this
land filled with neon twilight, ignited
by dreams–the only starlight provided
by its denizens. Replicators hiss,
create doppelgangers complete in each
detail–except for the spark of new life–
Explain their unexplained removals rife
with Why. Their originals forced to reach
a darkened sphere light-years away. No day
everyday, just night, they perform before
an unnoticed audience evermore
of little green men, -women too, who pay
to view the highlights of our alien
culture. An extraterrestrial zoo
to educate and entertain them too,
no politics, just delights mammalian.
They are cast into a forever lime-
light, each one a cultural icon of
their generation. Their sublime fans love
to mourn their loss on Earth, but they’re in prime
up there, these famous homo sapiens.
For all this artificial world’s a stage,
its eternal players forever share
spotlight within this enclosed stadium,
a neverending audience to rage
before, away, and with those stars up there.
*Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoyed my scifi stretched sonnet!
*image courtesy of http://publicdomainpictures.net/
Cat Russell 