Book Party

Camus is arguing against suicide
in the face of absurdity;
he's toe-to-toe with a disillusioned,
unpublished wall,
but he's still bringing me down
so I evict him from the room:
the automobile
warped and grinning
in twisted fate
(something not quite approaching irony).
There are others here
vying for my listless attention:
up above my right-hand shoulder
Kerouac and Burroughs, pepped up
on Bennies and their literary debut
are talking non-stop
about their friend Lucien
a knife
hippos.
They make more sense than later on
in the night
when Burroughs retires for a subdued fix
in a roomful of cats
assigned to his protection,
Kerouac mounts
some young groupie under the stairs
but grunt drunk and impotent
he's back soon and angrier than ever,
discounting all his beauty
in favour of another beer
and anti-semitic rants
(Celine listens quietly
until the end of the night).

Meanwhile
Kafka refuses to come through the front door,
he's busy scribbling away
some sentimental nonsense
for a girl who has lost her doll.
But he turns his small back to me
when I get closer (hawk profile shattering in sensitivity),
he tells me it's personal,
muttering something about the penal colony
if I don't keep my eyes to myself.
Alright, I leave him to it
as the small street darkens
and he struggles with his
eager pen
and
eager doubts.

​

Now look: Bukowski's resorted
to the replicated beast, mawling
young novella
Mary in the corner. Nabokov
isn't having any of it,
but Bukowski's sure of his weakness,
and after roaring dirty-old-man accusations
Vladimir leaves swiftly,
shaking his head at me
for introducing such a list.

 

Now
I notice Truman hung close to Charles.
He's mocking him and beckoning to him,
baiting him as he did Perry Smith,
encouraging the drunk,
trying to get him to take another step forward,
looking for motivation,
trying to forget about his mother.
Mr. Wilde sits above him, on the stairway
legs crossed
smoking a slender cigarette and looking casually bemused
by the whole shenanigans. I hear
he's still on probation,
won't make a move on anyone tonight.
And of course Allen is crouched
just up above him, tickling his ears,
trying to woo the impenetrable.

​

Across the room
Harold and Sam sit on the bright orange couch
(it is not as bright as Sam's spectacled fury).
They are
best of chums,
talking about something gloomy no doubt.

​

Out of place,
Woody Allen is lurking just behind the two,
fidgeting nervously.
I don't remember inviting him,
and judging by the way he's acting,
he's a gatecrasher. I keep quiet,
for fear I'll spoil the ambience.
Besides, Mailer and Thomas are
quarelling amiably in the far corner
and I don't want them getting anymore worked up,
not when I've got Bukowski over here
causing all manner of problems.

​

Well, at least Hemingway is subdued:
he finished a whole bottle of bourbon
to himself,
and now he's passed out
on the wooden floor,
directly in front
of Sam and Harold.
Sam gives him a sharp poke
with the point of his shoe
and poor Ernest mumbles
a little unintelligibly, a
little imprecise,
something about icebergs and shotguns.

​

“Still alive,”
I hear Sam say, turning back to Harold,
“He's definitely still alive.”

​