Poetry By Avoir Dupois

The well known angst riddled poet, Avoir Dupois, has decided to share some of his poetry with us in an attempt (we hope not in vain) to give this site some more sophistication.

I caught his act recently at the "Dimdank Poetry Cellar" in the East Village, where I had been hired to play rhythm changes in a jazz/klezmer trio, consisting of myself on guitar, a guy playing violin, and a goat who had been trained to play the ocarina (He was quite good actually).

The gig paid 75 bucks plus a stale club sandwich, AND, I got to hear this great poetry during the break. We chatted a bit, and Avoir agreed to let me post some of it here in exchange for a piece of the lettuce on my sandwich as he's a vegetarian and was "working" for free.

Here we go:

THE AZURE SKY

The M & Ms skittle across the azure blue

Yet I sit here alone, diddling

Where are you, where are you?

Where the hell is my dry cleaning?

The guy said Tuesday yet it is already Wednesday and I know not

What is time, spare a dime

Life is a crime, brother spare a dime

The bell will chime, Corona with Lime
Punishment and crime,

Dostoevsky

MY CAT

My cat is an idiot

Yet I feel he possesses an intellect greater than mine

The way he twiddles his claws and poops in a box

Yet appears aloof and urbane

He mocks me with his mockery

And allows the mice to live

So that I must spend extra money

For steel wool to stuff in the radiator

He reads Keats but cannot paint

He eats lint yet won't go near capers

He can speak French yet gets lost in Jersey

He is all yet he is none

He is my cat

LES PATRONS DANS CETTE DÉCHARGE

The people in this place smell vaguely of Scarsdale

After a late March Bar Mitzvah

Uncle Abe has fallen asleep

And the DJ is snorting something vile

In the gents room

Why does that woman keep yammering on her cell?

Perhaps she has the gout and is calling her doctor

Or is calling a neighbor to turn off the gas

But methinks she is just a rude asshole

Look! The piano player just threw up

On the drunk man from the financial district

Who sits coitally in the front row

Playing with himself and teasing others

Next time I shall pay the trumpet player

To fart on him as a joke

I shall laugh loudly then

I walk out the door my confidence shattered

I walk east of the sun, there is nothing

I walk west of the moon, there is less

I run south of 53rd street and get arrested for vagrancy

My foreskin flopping in the wind

The gendarme offers me an Altoid

But I don't smoke so I ignore him

He looks at me strangely and bats an eyelash

I find this strange but say nothing

As I fear jail and nightsticks in dark places

Oh somewhere in this dingy club a bulb is burning bright

The band is playing flatly and are drunk for half the night

And somewhere patrons vomit while the owner gives a shout

But there is no joy in Scarsdale

Uncle Abe just swallowed a trout