‘Noir, NJ’ by Paul Muldoon

muldoon

When I wake up in a strange bed
Beside a girl called Pam
I try to play the whole thing down
And give my name as Sam
It’s clear I’m way out of my depth
It’s clear that she’s dropped a dime
It’s clear that even I suspect
I’m guilty of some crime
I know those goons by the streetlamp
Are champing at the bit
I last saw them on board the train
Before we took a hit
And jumped the observation car
Only to lose our way
In a nightmarish railroad yard
Somewhere near Noir, NJ

When I squint through the slatted blinds
Pam orders juice and eggs
She’ll let a man do the legwork
While she works on her legs
It’s clear her husband was a wimp
It’s clear he had no spine
It’s clear she lit that cigarette
To give the goons a sign
I know that it’s a rule of thumb
A gumshoe’s fingered me
When ladies who’re high maintenance
Meet lighting that’s low key
They’re just so many femme fatales
Who have been led astray
And now lure plainclothesmen et al
Back there to Noir, NJ

When a sergeant with a scattergun
Meets a shamus
Halfway up the stairs
Somewhere between Paterson
And Paramus
They redefine the parameters
And bid us welcome, hey, hey, hey,
Welcome to Noir, NJ

When I flash forward through the murk
Of who did what to whom
I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve
To die here in this room
It’s clear I’ve been double-crossed
It’s clear that I’ve been framed
It’s clear that Pam’s husband was half deaf
From how they shout his name
I know I’ll be reduced to pulp
She’ll gulp with her orange juice
If I don’t reassert myself
She’ll kick in my caboose
It’s not too late to be hard-boiled
Like the eggs on Pam’s tray
Through even her pistol would recoil
At what happened in Noir, NJ

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Source: Muldoon, Paul. Joyce Carol Oates, Editor. New Jersey Noir. Consortium Book Sales & Dist, 2011. Print. pp. 217-218.

Image

Artifacts of Reference, No. 20

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The Mitterrand–Pasqua Affair (Charlotte Rampling)

Wikipedia Poem. No. 866

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Bad manmade structures effluent as a pistol and Caprus, while a
good more easily in
marmalade darkness, can lose
things dreamt amongst millennials is that a terrible
parts per trillion of iridium
in engineering a recalled forecast about 2 years into the Lycus. 
         The most common lyre is time
         someone
has died during an outflowing of the alien. Laodicea
is a ball. It's an outflowing,
the
inescapable parts perform
more violently, about
20 parts per trillion of
you can lose
your thought, dear reader, what a dogged lover 
or gas to go to: 
         The figurative thing is the alien.
Laodicea is my substitute for a
philothaumaturgical body of water, Asopus and
         their waters; Asopus an
outflowing end.

Are things of water
outflowing or are there magic
ends, while a good more
easily my substitute
forecast something like 2 years into any
water or gas to go: They last approximately 2 years into
iridium in
the figurative thing of iridium dreamt there
amongst the sheeply
hills between the shapely forms of the bad moon
in small rivers Asopus and Caprus, while a good 
         more easily in
         my substitute forms bad moons in
their waters, Asopus and Caprus,
while a god, more
easily in my godhead, news performs more violently 
         and it's a ball. 

It's the figurative forms of a performative structure. 
         Effluent is my substitute.
Forms bad-out like a fan of marmalade structures.
         Effluent is their water or gas-to-go: Where the
form more easily
engineer a chemical reactor. Fluent, more violent,
about 20 parasite dreams per beknighted forgotten desire
amongst millennials. Situate the long spur of iridium
in magic... shucks, 
         we're talking about
         time, someone has to die.

Only about 20
parts per trillion of you can lose the figurative thread.
Forms made into a milkshake-like lattice. Effluent 
         is the difference between
lover-of-magic bodies and given bodies between the 
         afterlife
and, well,
you: Bouton-de-Roses,
terrible parasite dream, millennials, 
         outflow of advertising
structures. Effluent, in reverse, 
         returns to the figurative think tank
what a lover knows is how to make figurative 
         the inescapable parts 
         per trillion of you, Bouton-de-Roses, 
         that a terrible end fears ends.
         Are we thinking in English again? is like what a terrible
parasite
dream amongst friends.
Floating down the Caprus, while a good more violently,
         about 20 parasite dreams
attempt to bring forth the common alien in law. 
         Laodicea is hell.

 

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