[Here is the second, two-part section of 64, entitled Epithalamium (wedding song), which recounts the courtship and the wedding ceremony of the two main characters (Peleus and Thetis). Different from my Propertius series, I retain the original classical names in this poem, albeit somewhat mockingly. I apologize in advance to anyone who may be offended by the shamelessly dark and vulgar seaside postcard type humor that pervades this section.]
EPITHALAMIUM
(2)
Back in the day, when gentlemen wore suits & hats and smoked
& young ladies were still half-divine creatures just waiting
to be swept up out of their fine shoes &
off their feet into Hollywood Casanova arms,
when love was still believed in
and overseen by stern parental consent,
& when the glimpse of a nipple through a sheer silk dress
was still enough to touch off an undying infatuation,
it was in that age that our hero first clapped eyes on Thetis
in a freak show at the end of the pier.
*
She was playing the mermaid for pay and the Siren for kicks;
& the scaly tail concealed her gammy leg & the signs
of a lingering dose of the VD & the scar from the last abortion she’d had.
And her nipples were only
peeking out, so it wasn’t porn, as the best-man later tried to joke.
*
“Me name’s Peleus, like the Brazilian football star.”
That was always a helluva good first line, he thought.
“Mine’s Thetis, like fetish and tits all mixed up together,”
she replied in a strong Scouse accent, not batting an eyelid.
“I like that name. I’ve always half fancied that Pelly guy,” she added,
eyeing him backwards over her shoulder, as she licked slowly at her ice cream cone.
“Always been a bit partial to ‘fetish and tits’ myself,” he quipped,
“So long as they’re drenched in vinegar with a portion of mushy peas on the side”.
“Quite the poet, ain’t ya, ya cheeky sod,” she noted disapprovingly.
Plenty more fish in the sea.
*
He wheels her down to the beach,
where the dirtied sea sputters scum
over the seaweed and discarded fag-ends
that mark the tideline.
“I’ve a good mind to throw you back in,” he jokes.
She laughs back at him.
They stroll off along the promenade,
pick up some dried dead star-fish and sea-horses
from seaside shops. The sea-food
restaurant is too expensive
so they scoff chips from newspaper
watching the moon set somewhere across the Irish Sea
behind the fading illuminations.
*
The car on the way back is hot as fuck
and stinks of gas. Thetis lights up a fag,
rolls down the window a few inches to flick the ash out.
The wind rushing past them blows it back in.
Thetis laughs.
(3)
The wedding has to be a big do. And the in-laws-to-be
stream in along the roads and railways and ferries
from Oldham, Scunthorpe and Grimsby,
Carlisle, Ulster, and the Isle of Man…
& the typing pools and the looms are left untended,
seams of coal in the mines undisturbed by picks;
the machines in the factories fall eerily silent
and glowing foundries produce no steel.
Fishing boats stay in their moorings, the herring and the sole
leap about fearless and gleeful in the sea;
& the Sikh busman is done up to the nines
and travels on but does not drive the bus;
and the bookmaker takes no bets this day.
And the mermaid
bride is wheeled down the aisle; and nosey aunts
have already picked through her DNA and the doctors
have pumped her full of injections to take the edge
off of her depressions and settle her twitching tail. Slurred words
are exchanged for vows and scratchy signatures are
put to documents to seal the union of the happy pair
& they are pushed out through a drunken reception
& off in the honeymoon car,
decked out with lewd words sprayed in shaving foam
& a clanking of cans.
And the traffic cops, who would normally be down on that like
a ton of bricks, leave them be.
Because the law goes on leave on a marriage day,
as cops long for their own happy nuptials. Still,
one of them takes note of the registration number
and that bald tire and busted rear light and swears
he’ll still nab the cheeky bastards when they come back this way.
[…] Section 2 – Epithalamium—Parts 2 – 3 […]