Marlowe’s Last Case: A Film Noir Poem

May 18, 2014 at 7:55 pm (Detective story, Movies, Mystery, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Marlowe’s Last Case: A Film Noir Poem

Hot night
cool breeze
a kiss by nature
wiping away the perspiration
the way other kisses
can wipe away tears
Marlowe smoked his last cigarette
looked at the blue purple and red of the sunset
as it set on Sunset Boulevard
The lights of the city shone
against the encroaching darkness
Neon flashed like a twinkling star
welcoming all to step in the dark
and be guided along by the neon signs
angels of the night showing the way
The way to what? Marlowe mused
Sin or redemption?
Maybe both.
Perhaps you can’t have one without the other.
In the shadows she approached
The outline of her figure highlighted
by the street lights
Mink coat
white blouse
Tight gray skirt
Spiked stilettos hitting the sidewalk pavement
like castanets on fingers of Spanish dancers
She stood in the open light
Her long dark hair as black
as the midnight sky of an Alaskan winter
There she was Marlowe thought
The ultimate femme fatale
Mr. Marlowe? Her voice whispered
like the call of dawn to a night that was far too long
I’m Marlowe, he answered blowing the last ring of smoke
from his last cigarette
Good-bye Mr. Marlowe, she pulled a gun out of her purse and shot him.
He didn’t have the strength to say good-bye
All those pellets of lead in his chest
seemed to restrict his speaking ability
to say nothing of his breathing
Oh well, he at least got one thing right
It was his last consolation
as his eyes fell into a darkness as black as her hair
She really was the ultimate femme fatale.

-A film noir poem
written by Christopher
Sunday May 18th
2014.

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Haiku About Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers

March 3, 2014 at 7:20 pm (Entertainment, History, Movies, Musicals, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Haiku About Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers

Astaire and Rogers
dance night away as top hat
tails meet dress and heels

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Sidney Seagull Private Eye

January 4, 2014 at 4:50 pm (Entertainment, Humour, Movies, Satire, Short Story) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Sidney Seagull Private Eye

British Columbia’s most famous seagull Sidney had opened up a private eye’s office on the beach at Vancouver’s English Bay.

He sat around drinking a bottle of bourbon and smoking a cigar while he waited for his first client to show up.

He got a lot of peculiar looks from human passers-by as he did so.

His friend Red Herring Gull flew in to see what he was doing.

“Hi Sid,” Red greeted him, “what’s up?”.

“I’ve decided to go into the private eye business, sweetheart,” Sidney answered in a Humphrey Bogart sounding voice.

“And are you coming out of the closet in the process as well?” Red asked, “You just called me sweetheart.”

“Of course not, you moron,” Sidney choked on his bourbon and cigar, “that’s just the way private eyes talk.”

“Sidney,” a female seagull who sounded a lot like Ingrid Bergman flew into his office.

“Why of all the private eye offices on all the beaches in all the world did she have to fly into this one?” Sidney buried his head in his fedora hat.

“Oh Sidney,” the seagull whose name was Ilsa sighed, “we’ll always have Paris.”

“Funny you should mention Paris,” Sidney belched bourbon, “Miss Hilton was quite pissed off when I crapped all over her dress.”

“I’m talking about Paris France, silly,” Ilsa batted her false eyelashes at him.

“I got the point right on the top of the Eiffel Tower,” Sidney recalled, “most painful enema I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Oh Sidney,” Ilsa started to cry and her mascara flowed like rain along the beach, “why are you so angry?”.

“Gees, I don’t know,” Sidney’s seagull lips dripped with sarcasm, “maybe it was because I was sitting alone in the rain looking stupid on a statue of Charles de Gaulle holding a note that said ‘Dear Rick, I find I have to suddenly leave Paris without you. Love, Ilsa’. That note pissed me off for two reasons. Reason #1: You had forgotten my name because you called me Rick and not Sidney. Reason # 2: You suddenly had to leave Paris without me.”

“Oh, Sidney, you’ve changed,” Ilsa sobbed.

“Of course I’ve changed,” Sidney replied, ” you think I’d wear the same suit that I wore in Paris? With all those coffee stains on it as a result of all those clumsy French waiters?”.

“You don’t understand, Rick,” Ilsa had forgotten Sidney’s name again, “that day when we were supposed to leave Paris together… the day when they started selling German sausages at stands along the Champs-Élysées… I received word that my husband did not die in a hockey training camp after all. He was alive and well and living in Paris. I had to leave Paris with him.”

“What? You couldn’t have dumped your husband and eloped with a bum like me?” Sidney swallowed his cigar, “what’s good enough for the Kardashians isn’t good enough for you?”.

“You don’t understand, Sidney,” Ilsa was crying as much now as a guest would on one of those sisterly blubberfests on the old Oprah Winfrey Show, “my husband is a leader in the Czech resistance movement and he’d fail without my love and support.”

“And as leader of the Czech resistance movement,” Sidney reached for another bottle of bourbon, “just what is it that he’s supposed to be resisting?”.

“Well,” Ilsa replied, “as leader of the Czech resistance movement, he always resisted losing at Chess.”

Just then a blackbird landed on the beach.

The blackbird had a harmonica in his mouth.

“Sam,” Ilsa greeted him, “play it Sam.”

The blackbird looked at Sidney, “That all right with you, boss?”.

Sidney winced as he said, “Play it Sam.”

And so Sam the Blackbird played Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush on his harmonica.

At that moment Jonathan Livingstone Seagull flew overhead.

He had spent New Year’s Day down in the state of Colorado where they had just legalized the sale of cannabis.

While Jonathan was busy singing that old John Denver song The Colorado Rocky Mountain High, he failed to notice the giant redwood tree in Stanley Park directly in front of him and flew into it- knocking himself out in the process.

At that moment, a falcon flew into Sidney’s office.

The falcon spoke in an unknown language.

“What the Hell are you saying?” Sidney spit out his bourbon.

“I think it’s Maltese,” Red said, “I watched a documentary on Malta on The History Channel last night.”

“You mean they occasionally show other programs on The History Channel besides that stupid American Pickers?” Sidney spit out his bourbon again.

“Sorry,” the Maltese falcon spoke, “I forgot you speak English here.”

At that moment a dog whose name was Sam walked by crying, “I’ve just been spayed. I’ve just been spayed.”

“We’ll be seeing you later, Sam spayed,” Sidney spoke in his Bogart voice as he had been speaking all afternoon.

The Maltese falcon spoke to Ilsa, “I’ve been sent here by your husband to put you directly on a flight to Sochi, Russia. Your husband has been named Captain of the Czech National Hockey Team- the first seagull in history to receive this honour and he’ll be playing in the 2014 Winter Olympics.”

“But why does she need to fly to Sochi now?” Sidney asked between shots of bourbon, “The Winter Olympics are still another month away.”

“Yes but the line-ups for the best borscht soup and beef stroganoff in town have already started,” the Maltese falcon answered, “and your husband wants to be the first in line.”

A sea plane landed on the water by the beach at English Bay.

An old-time train conductor (still waiting for his ship to come in) opened the door of the sea plane and shouted, “Next flight to Sochi, Russia. All aboard.”

“Oh Rick,” Ilsa sobbed on Sidney’s shoulder, “I don’t want to get on that plane. Tell me what I should do and I’ll do it.”

“The name’s Sidney and it looks like I’ll have to do the thinking for both of us. And in the alcoholic haze I’m in, that’s going to take a great deal of talent on my part,” Sidney answered, “Look I may not be the most noble guy in the world… in fact I haven’t been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize even once. But I do know this. The problems of two seagulls don’t amount to a a hill of beans in this world. They amount to a hill of something else. But if you don’t get on that plane, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday and soon.”

“Good-bye Rick,” Ilsa kissed him and boarded the plane.

“The name’s Sidney,” Sidney remarked as the plane flew off into the sunset.

“You know, Sidney,” Red broke the silence, “you know how you said you thought you looked stupid sitting alone on a statue of Charles de Gaulle in the rain?”.

“Yeah,” Sidney nodded sadly.

“Well personally I think anyone would look stupid sitting on a statue of Charles de Gaulle whatever the weather,” Red stated.

“You know, Louis,” Sidney grinned at him, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“The name’s Red,” Red answered, “and if you want me, whistle.”

They walked into the water together as Sam the blackbird played on his harmonica the song whose lyrics went, “Does your memory stray to a bright summer day when I laughed and called you sweetheart…”

The unconscious body of Jonathan Livingstone Seagull floated by.

Sidney took off his fedora in a sign of respect and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

-A Sidney Seagull short story
written by Christopher
Friday January 3rd
2014.

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Haiku About Actor Vincent Price

October 13, 2013 at 3:37 pm (Poetry) (, , , , )

Mister Vincent Price

a voice so soft and mellow

bespeaks such terror

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