Taking obscene liberties with the prim, proper villanelle!
The Two of Me
The old ham actor, the young Brando clone:
Strong silent type or windbag? Too cool for school
Or farcically high-strung? I can be both.
I jabber to my best friend on the phone
(Ten paragraphs per second as a rule!):
This gusty bumpkin's no Cal Coolidge clone!
Then I sink into taciturnity.
Silent treatment. Bottomless well of gloom.
Not laughable, not laughing. No, not me.
Next morning, full of coffee and inspiration,
I thunder sonnets to the moons of Neptune,
And ham it up for the crowd while all alone.
Then it'll be days, weeks till you hear a thing.
Incommunicado. Shut in my room.
Unplayable guitar without a string.
The windbag or the clone of Silent Cal:
Which one am I? Changes from night to noon.
Laughing hyena or snail curled in its shell?
The drunken chatterbox. The tight-lipped churl.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2018-10-25 at 07:31
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