[Alex Pepple]

At the East Side

           — L.A.
          (revised text in blue)


He stumbles from a smoky room
           onto the back street (glare
of fresh graffiti) to resume
           his day, with scant fanfare,
when sharp stilettos—thick perfume,

black fishnet stockings, long dark hair—
           strut by. And suddenly,
itches like spider-leg strokes flare
           his nostrils out. Then he
quivers taut, gulps lungfuls of air—

eyes shut tight, head back—to explode
           out one raspy achoo
that dapples dust over the road;
           he tramps and drags a shoe.
“Change, miss?” he asks, hand out, like owed.

Half-seated on a T-Bird’s hood,
           He’s down, with cheer, to show
her in—the muscled arms tattooed.
           He revs his ride as it rumbles low . . .
They’re off, smoke gobbling air like food.

------------------------------------------------------

~~~Second revision ~~~

At the East Side

           — L.A.
          (revised text in blue)

He stumbles from a smoky room
           onto the back street (flair
of fresh graffiti) to resume
           his day, with scant fanfare,
when some high-heeled girl—thick perfume,

black fishnet stockings, long dark hair—
           struts by. And suddenly,
itches like spider-leg strokes flare
           his nostrils out. Then he
quivers taut, gulps lungfuls of air—

eyes shut tight, head back—to explode
           out one raspy achoo
that freckles dark the dusty road;
           he tramps and drags a shoe.
“Change, ma’am?” he asks, hand out, like owed.

Half-seated on a T-Bird’s hood,
           a man awaits to show
her in—arm offered, all tattooed.
           It’s revved; it rumbles low . . .
They’re off, smoke gobbling air like food.

------------------------------------------------------

~~~First revision ~~~

At the East Side

      — L.A.


He steps out from a smoky room
      onto the back street (glare
of fresh graffiti) to resume
      his daily bland fanfare,
when some high-heeled girl—thick perfume,

black fishnet stockings, long dark hair—
      struts by. And suddenly,
itches like spider-leg strokes flare
      his nostrils wide. Then he
quivers taut, gulps lungfuls of air—

eyes shut tight, head back—to explode
      out one raspy achoo
that bespeckles the dusty road;
      he tramps and drags a shoe.
“Change, ma’am?” he motions, his pace slowed.

Ahead, reclined on a T-Bird’s hood,
      a man awaits to show
her in—arm offered, all tattooed.
      Foot gas-heavy, the beau
is off, smoke devouring air like food.

[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

Thanks Alex I followed this on, a nice bit of fun and I visualised it all the way. But if you feel so inclined on the architect one not a full exegesis but a nod or two would be appreciated.

Jan

[Max Goodman]

Concrete in both senses of the word! This is engaging in all the sensory details.

"His daily bland fanfare" baffles me, and stands out as lacking the specific picture of most of the rest.

"his pace slowed" is hard to picture. Before tramping, he was looking at this woman and then sneezing, "eyes shut tight, head back." I suppose he might have been walking through all that, but the words don't suggest it, and certainly don't suggest walking at a fast pace. The phrase also suggests that he keeps moving as he asks for change, rather than stopping--stopping feels more likely.

FWIW.

[Mark McDonnell]

Hi Alex,

I quite like the tautness of this and the way the rhymes are hidden by heavy enjambment. I can't get a grasp of a consistent metre, really. Even though it looks like a 4,3,4,3,4 rhythm, the stresses don't always fall into place that way, so it reads in places more like a syllabic to me. But I don't mind that, it's just an observation. I quite like it.

Some of the aforementioned rhymes seem a little forced: does graffiti, even fresh, really glare? Could you have him step "into the neon glare" in L2, then do something else with L3? I'm guessing his "bland fanfare" is his repeated request for change but, again, it seems an odd, rhyme-forced choice of words. And does anyone use the word "beau" anymore? (I suppose the Noir of the title indicates a possibly dated, or stylised, reality for the events)

I wonder if "some high-heeled girl—thick perfume,/black fishnet stockings, long dark hair—/struts by" is leaning a bit too heavily on stereotypes. I realise I'm risking double standards here because I was picked up on similar in my recent noir-themed poem. But here there seems no irony or authorial commentary, and it feels...I don't know, a little much.

I do like the "smoke devouring air like food", which is a surprising rhyme that works in its unexpectedness.

Mark

[Jan Iwaszkiewicz]

I tried to answer this earlier Alex but unfortunately Wi-Fi coverage is a bit patchy. I have come back to look at this again and I like this form it is I don’t know what but I suppose I’d call it a jazz ballad. The syncopation works beautifully. I know I will steal the format at some time in the near future. The hood in the hood.

Jan

[Richard G]

Hi Alex,
not sure 'bespeckles' fits the noir mood (similarly 'beau') and the end stutters a bit too much for me.

S1, perhaps 'shuffles' for 'steps out' - do you need girl? (Hardly Chandleresque, is it?)

S2, other than echoing the /aɪ/ of 'spider', what purpose is 'wide' serving'

S3, 'slowed' (maybe, his head bowed?)

S4, 'Ahead' seems to be filler. And wouldn't the height of a T-birds hood make reclining either awkward or ridiculous? And is reclining the right word anyway?

RG.