ART IN NEW HAVEN

I walk alone through this dark abyss,
Where local literati take a piss,
Where I can hear boastful buffoons
Belch out theories like bloated balloons.

"Hey man," one argues, "Dostoyevsky's cool!"
"Far out, man!" his friend replies and drools,
Drinking his beer, staring at the rump
Of some blonde poetess he'd love to hump.

"Chekhov is awesome!" someone intervenes,
Too high on mushrooms or on mescaline,
While yet another connoisseur of art
Lets out a pensive and esthetic fart.

And in the bathroom someone's getting laid--
A band musician--a sensation of the day--
Without fanfare by the toilet seat
He takes his groupie like a bitch in heat.

"I'm a novelist," I hear someone say--
A local Faulkner or a Hemingway--
But at the risk of sounding unkind,
He is a novelist but in his own mind.

I see these clowns here night and day,
I hate their fronts and all the games they play,
I drink and I observe their little lies,
While something deep inside me slowly dies.
 

                                                        December 24, 1994
                                                    --Alexander Shaumyan