Jack O’ Hare In Film Noir: A Poem

September 4, 2017 at 7:15 pm (Comedy, Crime, Detective story, Entertainment, Humour, Mystery, Poetry, Radio) (, , , , )

Jack O’ Hare In Film Noir: A Poem

It was on the other side of San Francisco Chinatown
lived the man called Emmanuel Gold Brown
He got electrocuted when the radio fell into his bath one night
with the result he died listening to Inner Sanctum but not from fright
The water was still bubbling when police and ambulance arrived
causing the lieutenant to quip this place is hotter than a jazz jive

Electrocution was the cause of death ruled the city’s coroner
no surprise- unlike the plum in pie of little Jack Horner
The question was who threw the plugged radio into the tub
leading to murder most foul- aye, there’s the rub

Now Jack O’ Hare was a private eye in town
one who knew a verb was different from a noun
The other eyes in town didn’t have much of an education
so bad- they could have been Congressmen planning legislation

It just so happened one hot and sultry night
as a lonely carrot succumbed to Jack’s bite
that Jessica Rabbit came strolling through the door
wearing an outfit that sent most men dead to the floor

Jessica’s tight fitting dress caused Jack to hyperventilate
but that would not be the extent of this bunny rabbit’s fate
for Jessica knew who had slain Emmanuel Gold Brown
the dashing night club owner and man about town

How do you know? Jack asked in between munching on carrots
he wondered why the building next door was loaded with ferrets.
I was there in the bathroom at the time
answered Roger Rabbit’s wife who was dressed to the nine.

Jack choked on his bottle of Avocado 🥑 and Grapefruit mix
he didn’t drink bourbon like those eyes in the Sticks.
What were you doing in the bathroom when the man was taking a bath 🛀?
This remark caused Jessica Rabbit to laugh and laugh.

Said Jessica, We owe the IRS a lot in back taxes
far more than Lizzie Borden gave her parents whackses
Now Roger’s acting career doesn’t pay much when it comes to loading the dice 🎲
In fact it doesn’t even pay for a take out order of rice 🍚
So I, sighed Jessica, have to make a little money on the side
which often involves taking men for a ride

That means you’re an —–? Jack paused on his paws
“Escort is the word I prefer,” Jessica said, “The service called Ma’s.”
“I just thought Mrs. Barker made apple pie,”
Jack rubbed the carrot juice out of his eye.
“Oh, Mrs. Barker has plenty of pies galore
as well as all sorts of cats coming in and out the door.”
“It’s a real cat house then?”
Jack caught an egg from a hen.
The hen ran up the fire escape
It was how she kept in shape.

“You could very well say that,”
Jessica spoke setting the trap,
“Now come along with me
to the wharf by the sea
and you’ll meet Brown’s killer
for real- not like in a Thriller.”

“And why would I want to meet Brown’s killer?” Jack asked,
“I’d sooner meet the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Because I’m paying you to,”
Jessica adjusted her dress tight and blue.

“Paying me to meet a killer?”
It did sound like an opening line in a thriller.
Jessica showed Jack her diamond ring 💍
as the nightingale in the alley started to sing 🎶
“These carats could buy a lot of carrots,” Jessica suggested
as she lowered her dress top showing she was amply breasted.

“Indeed they could,” Jack rose to the occasion
He didn’t need any more persuasion
so Jack and Jessica headed to a wharf on the Bay in San Fran
A foggy night where people get lost just trying to find the can

Jack and Jess got out of the car in time before it headed off the dock
With the splash, Jack sighed, “There goes my favourite sock.”
He really should learn to drive with his shoes on
either that or stop walking bare feet where the salmon spawn.

“Good evening, Mr. O’ Hare,”
said a voice most sinister,
“I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you seen a floating red sock pass through?”
Jack O’ Hare was anxious to know
before he felt the urge to go.

“I killed Emmanuel Gold Brown,” the man grinned
to deed he’d admit but wouldn’t confess he sinned
“And why did you do that?” Jack sounded like the BBC’s Detective Foyle
while he sat and waited for his tea to boil

“Why are you boiling tea on the dock?”
This man wondered if Jack’s private eye reputation was all a crock
“Because I’m thirsty,” replied Jack
pulling out biscuits for a snack,
“Your voice sounds very familiar.”
The bunny waved aside Jessica’s offer of a Pilsner.

“It should sound familiar,” the man frothed, “for I am the voice of The Shadow.”
A ship 🚢 sailed by carrying llamas for cargo.
“You don’t sound much like Orson Welles,”
Jack found on the pier a book of spells.

“Ever since Welles played that role, the public won’t accept another voice for the Shadow,”
into his handkerchief the man his nose did blow.
“Them’s the brakes,” Jack remarked as a car spun out of control off the dock
Jessica wondered if she should go home and change her frock.

“So,” Jack scratched his whiskers, “why did you kill Emmanuel Gold Brown?”
“Because,” the man said, “he wasn’t listening to me- Lamont Cranston wealthy young man about town.
He was listening to Inner Sanctum Mysteries told by Raymond your host.
For that mistake in radio programming, he’s now a ghost 👻.”

The man took out a gun and aimed it at Jack,
“I wanted to get my reputation back,
to kill the world’s greatest private eye like meat 🍖 on a rack
but whoever told me about you was smoking too much crack.”

“Smoking is bad for your health,”
said Jack whose advice was medical wealth.
The man clicked the gun, “I’ll shoot you like a dog in my pyjama,”
It was then he was run over by a fleeing llama.

The Shadow was buried the very next day
while Jack was hopping through farm fields and hay
Jack thought of the night before and of Jessica Rabbit, he really should have kissed her
He sighed, went home, put the radio on and listened to The Whistler.

-A Jack O’ Hare poem
written by Christopher
Monday September 4th
2017.

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Tellington Blackstreet: A Poem

October 18, 2016 at 4:16 pm (Detective story, Film, Poetry) (, , , )

Tellington Blackstreet: A Poem

Tellington Blackstreet was a different sort of private eye
If trouble didn’t come to him, he’d go looking for trouble
He went into a library and the library sign said, This library is a safe zone
He wondered how safe it was
He went up to one of the librarians, pulled out a gun and shot him several times
He waited
The librarian died from multiple gunshot wounds
I guess the library wasn’t as safe as the sign made out to be
Tellington thought and walked away

He walked down the street and saw some irate female- no doubt a feminist- they were always irate about something or other- objecting to someone wearing a Donald Trump For President hat
“I feel uncomfortable and unsafe you wearing such a racist sexist homophobic hat” she whined.

“What a bitch,” Tellington thought to himself, “no doubt she’d really be bitching if someone shot her in the foot”
He decided to do just that to test the empirical results of his observation
Sure enough after he shot her in the foot, she really started bitching her head off
in between her screams of pain and agony.

Tellington decided to go back to the office
It had been a long time since a tight skirted hot looking babe femme fatale came into his office looking for help
Mind you in this city of quite a lot of ugly looking women that would be quite the unusual encounter
Where was that great fictional defender of the higher aesthetic values of civilization Pan Goatee around when you really need him?
Tellington wondered.
He turned to the Internet and read his favourite blog Dracul Van Helsing.

-A private eye poem
written by Christopher
Tuesday October 18th
2016.

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Wilkie The Cat: The Big Chill: A Private Eye Poem

August 2, 2016 at 12:03 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , )

It had been a hot and humid night
Wilkie’s fur was feeling tight
stuck together like glue
not even a cat brush could get through
Wilkie’s fan was working overtime
while Wilkie drank water mixed with lime

The private eye office door opened then
frightening the office hen
who promptly laid an egg
that rolled under Wilkie’s leg

It was Mitzi standing there
looking better than a Tic Tac square
Wilkie thought in unromantic fashion
after all the she-cat was positively smashin’

How can I help you? Wilkie did ask.
I need a private eye, Mitzi winked, are you up to the task?

Wilkie banged the desk to signify yes
and the squashed egg made quite the mess
but in spite of the yolk
it was no joke.

Mitzi’s catnip had gone astray
it just upped and walked away

So Wilkie followed the catnip trail
one that made magic mushrooms pale
Through the Looking Glass, Wilkie went
and caused in Mad Hatter’s hat a dent
The Cheshire Cat’s smile was all that was there
when Queen of Hearts’ head hung in the square

Wilkie awoke with a start
saying be still, my rapid heart
His private eye fantasy all but a dream
He looked out his window and saw the catnip gleam

Wilkie thought to himself, Hm. I wonder?
Yes, what cat and nip have joined together, let not dreams put asunder.

-A poem written by Christopher
Saturday July 30th 2016.

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A Day In The Life As Seen By Philip Marlowe: A Poem

April 15, 2015 at 7:38 pm (Detective story, Entertainment, Humour, Literature, Movies, Poetry) (, , , , , , , )

A Day In The Life As Seen By Philip Marlowe: A Poem

They say if life hands you lemons
then make lemonade
However that philosophy only works if you’ve also got sugar and water on hand
Bourbon and honey doesn’t really make for a great substitute
especially if Mrs. Mullins’ cat from upstairs drinks deeply from the pitcher you left on the fire escape
as deeply as Pegasus drank from the Pierian Spring
A little learning is a dangerous thing
and so was Mrs. Mullins’ frying pan that she hurled at me after she discovered her cat Absalom doing the dance of the 7 Veils up on the apartment roof top
after imbibing my own particular take on the lemonade of life philosophy
As she cried “Alas Absalom” on the rooftop
I quickly hurried to the safety of the streets below
If the client won’t come to Marlowe
then Marlowe better go to the client
and I need to find one in a hurry
if I don’t wish to be crowned “Lord of All” (as that old hymn puts it) by Mrs.
Mullins’ frying pan .

So I hurry through these streets in my trench coat
people stare at me no doubt thinking I’m a would-be flasher
guess they’ve never seen a private eye before
I hurry to my office and hope a client shows up
But one doesn’t
Seven bottles of bourbon and one finally dead ceiling fan later
I decide to head home
and face the music
(a little known melody written by some obscure composer for Mrs. Mullins’ frying pan)
As I walk down the street, there’s some positive thinking guru standing on the corner handing out this free advice,
If life hands you lemons, then make lemonade.

I hit him where it hurts.

“Let’s see if life hands you a new pair of testicles” was my last parting shot
as I walked beneath the glittering neon light
and off into the sunset.

-A Philip Marlowe narrative poem
written by Christopher
Wednesday April 15th
2015.

Note: As I wrote this poem, I imagined the voice of Humphrey Bogart reciting it in my head.

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Swimming Pool In The Rain: A Poem

February 10, 2015 at 8:15 pm (Detective story, Humour, Mystery, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Swimming Pool In The Rain: A Poem

Rainy night
neon lights reflect in puddles on the street
Sound of footsteps striking pavement
and drops of water fly up as shoes hit concrete
The private eye dashed along the street
headed for a mansion on Sunset Boulevard
a body was found in a swimming pool
and he had been called by the victim’s bartender to investigate
fearing the police might prove incompetent in investigating.
A body in a swimming pool at a Sunset Boulevard mansion-
might make for a nifty plot for a movie
the private eye thought as he lit a cigarette
Damn- he shouldn’t try smoking in the pouring rain
both match and cigarette were extinguished by the downpour
Nothing like having a wet cigarette in your mouth-
he coughed to the nearby street lamps who didn’t answer him.
He arrived at the mansion-
the press were there taking pictures of the body in the pool.
“Say cheese,” one photog wag quipped as he snapped a picture.
“Albion, what are you doing here?” A police captain asked the private eye as he downed 10 different pills of heart medication in a large glass in the pouring rain.
“The victim’s bartender Roncalli heard on the radio that the guy’s body had been found in the pool,” Albion answered, “and wanted to know how he died.”
“Why?” The police captain then started taking 10 different medication pills for his liver, “is he feeling guilty about not cutting him off? Figured that all those extra shots of bourbon was a case of drinking and swimming don’t mix?”
“Depends,” Albion answered, “did this guy usually swim fully dressed?”
“Well according to the staff,” the police captain took another large glass of water handed to him by his sargeant so he could down 10 different medication pills for his kidneys, “he usually swam in the nude.”
“I see,” Private Eye Albion lit another cigarette that was likewise extinguished by the pouring rain.
“He was apparently shot in the back according to eyewitnesses,” the police captain searched through his pockets for his multiple-layered bifocals, “and then fell into the pool after he was shot.”
“That would explain the red colour in the pool,” Albion looked down at the pool, “anyone see who fired the shot?”.
“No,” the police captain then took another large glass of water so he could down 10 different laxative pills for his bowels, “the shot was apparently fired from that open window there. No one saw who fired that shot.”
“The mystery deepens,” Albion looked towards the deep end of the pool.
“Mind if I use your bathroom?” The police captain asked the Estate’s butler as he ran towards the house.
“Not at all, sir,” the butler answered, “it’s on the fourth floor of the mansion.”
“Oh shit,” said the police captain who proceeded to do just that.

“So, he usually swam in the nude, then?” Albion asked the French maid.

“Yes, Monsieur,” the French maid smoothed her skirt and adjusted her black silk fishnet nylons, “he didn’t usually wear his clothes.”

“Or Madame’s clothes either,” the Mexican gardener added.

“What did you mean by that?” Albion asked.

It turned out to be an open and shut case, Albion thought as he put the violin back in the case when he had finished serenading the Estate staff with his interpretation of Franz Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 after solving the mystery.

Mr. Wayne it turned out was a cross-dresser and had borrowed Mrs. Wayne’s favourite dress the night before without asking or even telling her.

When Mrs. Wayne found the French mustard and hot chocolate stains on her dress this morning, she had shot her husband in the back as he was walking pool side.

And so Albion walked back to his office in the pouring rain.
What an awful fate for a male cross-dresser, Albion thought, to be found floating face down in men’s clothes in a swimming pool.
And the moral of the story was, Don’t take your wife’s clothes without asking.

-A private eye film noir poem
written by Christopher
Monday February 9th
2014.

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