Lights a cigarette as the man in a fedora
leans closer to the woman in a crimson kimono
who smells of rye with a twist.
Auguste Dupine walks in, donning a deerstalker hat,
With his friend, a rambunctious egg-headed man.
The searing cello and puffs fill the air;
somewhere far away a curious tune,
ominous sinister bleak terrifying,
accompanies the silhouettes
and lingers over the morbid bylanes.
A gigolo and gigolette sit by a river,
the shadows behind them on the streets, come and go;
there’s an odd man, he’s wailing,
he clutches the McGuffin between his thumbs.
“That you, Shasta?” “That you, Shasta?”
Doc is high on grass.
Oedipa asks the bartender if she’s heard of Trystero,
With averted eyes, she declines,
but muted posthorn tattooed on her forearm
tells another story.
In a decrepit den, tobacco hid in his
persian slippers, Poirot, with an eye-patch,
disguised as a pirate, discusses
mesopotamian hymns with Clouzot
who drinks his creme de menthe with gin.
“Devils jump out of bathtubs to manufacture heart attacks,
I suspect, is not a good translation.”
Killer called M is still loose in the metropolis,
amidst shadows and fog --
his latest victim succumbed to a cocktail
laced with good old arsenic and strychnine --
and digs up yet another grave in his cellar
with the help of a psycho
who crossdresses to become his mother.
Inspector Chandler, he’s fuming,
his burgled desk is missing the forged insurance papers,
did that dame in crimson who was hiding
behind the curtains with a .45
as he hung on to a tree branch near the window
Didn’t get the money, didn’t get the woman.
Image: wikimedia commons