For Sale

Jaguar, well maintained
Some rust has remained
No bumps or scuffs
Scratches removed with plenty of buffs
Service history
Paintwork blistery
Readvertised due to timewaster
Try out luxury, have a taster

Male divorcee
Would like to invite for tea
Busty lady with well stock purse
I'm getting on so prefer a nurse
History of depression
Plenty of obsession
Advertising due to being alone
Any interest, please phone

©2004 Hey Hey

this one got my full attention from the word go Hey.

For Sale

Jaguar, well maintained
Some rust has remained

I had to read on. Now I'm wondering how auto (no pun intended) biographical this is. I assume there is a connection between the two verses? Is there a metaphorical link between the jaguar and the divorcee? If so I just love the humorous self deprecation.

I've just read it three or four more times, and I love it. Well done.

My son who owns a garage recently aquired a Jaguar car that I used to own. He sold it today. I'm not a divorcee (poetic licence?), but I feel a bit like the Jaguar; past my prime but with some great memories.

Having taken my meds and exercised myself to exhaustion, I am now supposed to be out on a walk, but, instead, just before I go out--to end up at the coffeehouse where I hope a worthy sonnet will be born--I simply must pause here to tell you that I LOVE this poem!

I am terrible at replying, aren't I? Well... my fingers get so terribly tired, and then they don't work right, and then I make typos, which lowers my self-esteem... do you think that would hold up in court as an insanity defense? I hope so...

What I mean to say is--and I suppose I have already said it--I do love this poem. Now, before I go en promenade, here is a little story about my tight-arsed Dutch neighbor, Dr. Kitselman (I hope he reads this, the bastard):

He came home driving a beautiful long white Jag one day, instead of his customary tight-arsed little black Mercedes with his white doctor's coat hanging on a hanger in the back. I asked him why. He replied: "Steven, I just turned fifty, and I... I... HAD to do something, you know? I didn't want to leave my wife, go gay, anything like that... but SOMEthing. And that little black Mercedes was just so... 'middle-aged-doctor.' I couldn't stand it anymore. So I gave it to my son and bought myself... THIS."

Every step along the way of my construction of student housing for Chapman University on my property, the city receives anonymous questions and concerns from him. All that's changed is his damned car! So the student housing will all be up to code, and he will continue to be a cornhole (American term which should defeat the Mind-brain software).

Just wanted to share!

I love Jag-u-ars!

So I told Dr. Kist O' Whistles: "Well, you know what Austin Powers says, don't you (he didn't)? SHAG-you-are, baby!" He loved that, and promised me he'd say it, albeit with the windows rolled up.

I must go walk now. Or else the Valium will make me go to sleep, and I have "miles to go before I sleep," as Frost would have it. I'm not entirely sure about Robert Frost, nor is history... I prefer T. S. Eliot, Hey Hey, Silke, and burnout, personally.

All my love to all.

Heaven forfend, I forgot dear Yorkshireman Wystan Auden! Sorry! (He came over here and Eliot went over there... I guess it sort of evens out in the end. But I am not at ALL certain about Frost. ...And, come to think of it, Auden ended up going home in the end anyway...)

Steven

Did I mention, that your descriptive style of almost every/anything is so endearing that I think you should be on TV? Sort of an arts show host. Especially if it was in the UK. On same line as T.S. Eliot? Now I know you're kidding! W.B. Yeats does it for me (you know, Down By The Salley Gardens and The Sorrow of Love, type of stuff). That last burnout was ace wasn't it?

Hey Hey
ps Glad you like the above poem. 'Twas sort of ficticious real life (Ha!)

Well yes! AUDen was no ORDINary poet!

You see, Frost and I go back to school days and he became a friend. Although I haven't communciated for some time now.

Oh yes, yes, Yeats! But, God, what an ego... Oh well, Irish, you know... (Just kidding! Please no bombs!)

Yes, I do love Yeats. My first poetry professor was quite obsessed with him, had him crammed down my throat rather; Yeats therefore seems a bit of an authority figure to me. By the way, my prof's name was... are you ready? William Blake!

He was also a Zen master, rather like a reincarnation of Blake might have been. Strange, very strange.

Thank you for being so kind to me. Many people don't like how I post, and think I am tedious and precious, mincing and gay... let's see... what else... oh, yes: archaic. That's my fave!

Well, I'm all cheered-up now, so I will go out walking and hope for the best.

Alles wird gut.

I will talk to Silke tonight, and the moon will shine on me, um Mitternacht.

I love Auden's sense of humor. And don't forget good old Laureate Sir John Betjeman! Do you like him? I do. He's funny, and warm, and dear.

OK, I'll be responsible: I remember the ancient Robert Frost, wispy white hair tousled by the freezing wind, reading at John Kennedy's inauguration when I was a child, in January of 1961. What a different time that was! Can you imagine Bush have a poet read? His wife invited some poets to the White House, but then when they were investigated they were summarily disinvited in a panic. No poets have been invited again.

God help us.

Oh well, mustn't get depressed; the Nazis are on the run, I hope; the poll numbers are moving the right way (if they don't STEAL the election again). And I must be nice about the Irish, because Kerry is; it's just that my first wife was, as well, know what I mean?

Off I go, before I get voted for suspension, or whatever it is they do hereabouts nowadays. At least I haven't run afoul of either Enki or Robert the Bruce, Gott sei Dank.

Solidarity, and a pleasant evening or morning to all, wherever you may be.

Sir John, what a nice man. But did we really know him? Tears of a clown and all that?

Yes, that's what's so delightful about Sir John; so brilliant that he was always rather a riddle. I like that in a man. He could really be funny when he felt like it.

Oh dear, my fingers have failed me utterly now. I must away.