Les Bohem

Untitled

Why walk backwards?
Why indulge a delinquent nostalgia,
Image yourself bloodless in front of time,
Buy portions of your skull in gift shops?
Don’t fuck around anymore.
I hate your putrid, temporary past.
I hate how much better life used to be.
I hate art deco,
And fifties chrome,
And English rock and roll,
And old clothes that someone else wore
(and had a better time in them than I ever will.)
You cannot make yourself better than
Your memories.
You can’t win.
The weight of the past will eat your paltry,
Shimmering present in an instant,
And you’ll disappear
In the pink and black cloud of that nostalgia.
That ’56 Cadillac you’re driving
Is a dream that has already proven ridiculous
And hopeless.
The choice you’re making doesn’t exist,
Because nothing freezes.
If that car still runs it is only through
An accident of time.
Every year they should burn everything
That was made the year before.
But then, come September, you’d just be
Nostalgic
For August.
(A revolutionary band moves through the street,
bombing antique shops and second-hand stores.
If you’re caught wearing a sharkskin jacket
Or pointed toed boots,
Your kneecaps will be shot out.
What are the revolutionaries wearing?
Clothes are a form of expression—
Dressing is an art—
Art relies on cognition—
Cognition responds to memory—
THE PAST CANNOT BE KILLED.
Sorry about your kneecaps.)

.

Les Bohem started out as a songwriter, and then he played in some bands, and that somehow morphed into a career writing for the movies and for television. But there is very little poetry there, and so here he is, back where he started.

Back