Stardom Poem by Pierre Rausch

While he could enclose in applause
It doesn't even make much of a difference
And able to cut through anything
Said nothing for a tick

A corridor of managers
Drivers and lawyers
Newly patterned his ink
And when where you going to let me know
The right kind of gloves
The bottom of the industry
Tenderly in roman numbers
One was whispering something

Kneeling down with a trumpet
Good. Glad he thinks so
The lights go red. The lights go blue
Into slits and then opens it wide

A corridor of managers
Drivers and lawyers
Newly patterned his ink
And when where you going to let me know
The right kind of gloves
The bottom of the industry
Tenderly in roman numbers
One was whispering something

A floppy disk and a steakhouse
Northerly or southerly
A neutral grey into deep space
Could have been Yesterday


A corridor of managers
Drivers and lawyers
Newly patterned his ink
And when where you going to let me know
The right kind of gloves
The bottom of the industry
Tenderly in roman numbers
One was whispering something