The 1920s

Al Capone summons journalists to his suite
At the Metropole Hotel in Chicago,
To announce,with a devious actor’s flair,
His retirement from public service.
His soft voice holds immense charisma,
Authority laced with menace:
“The public good is my motto.
Ninety per cent of the people of Chicago
Drink and gamble; I’ve tried to supply them
With decent liquor and square games.
But I’m not appreciated.It’s no use.
Let the worthy citizens of Chicago
Get their liquor the best way they can.
I’m sick of the job.It’s a thankless one
And full of grief.I could bear it all
If it weren’t for the hurt it brings
To my mother and my family.
They hear so much about what
A terrible criminal I am.
It’s getting too much for them.”
His fat face powdered to hide the scars,
He poses in hand-made tangerine suit,
The right pocket concealing a gun,
With his diamond cuff-links and tie pin,
And huge bluewhite diamond
On the little finger of his left hand;
On the mahogany desk sit bowls of roses,
Behind it a submachine gun is concealed;
Outside his custom-built Cadillac waits,
Steel-plated,bullet-proof,seven tonnes,
The emperor’s chariot for processions
Through the streets that pay him tribute
As he plays the role of entrepreneur,
Respectable business man and benefactor.
Eager for public approval and acclaim.
On the golf course,his plus fours held up
By a diamond-buckled belt,pockets packed
With guns and hipflasks,Capone plays
His cronies for five hundred bucks a hole;
Romping like hooligans,they use each other
As tees,wrestle,leapfrog and somersault
On the plush greens. And,at night,
It is champagne,cocaine and showgirls,
Sentimental songs in jazz clubs.

Bessie Smith,tall,buxom and stately,
Steps off the train in another town
To sing the blues,her heart pierced
By seven daggers,from dusk to dawn;
No home but the music, voodoo queen
Of song,she practises black love and loss,
And never leaves the party till all the booze
Is gone;cruel pleasure is her addiction;
Any young beauty would do for her bed,
Dancers,musicians,men and women,
As long as they were young and lively,
She swigs them down like moonshine,
Devours them like fried pigs’ feet.
Beaten and bruised,she laughs
With joyous fury at sorrow,throwing
Life over her shoulder like an ermine stole.
All the praying and shouting and groaning
Of the world is in her voice.

Flappers with silver flasks tucked
Into their stocking-tops,
And tiny gold cocaine spoons
Dangling from their necks
Go mad on the dance floor,
Bony bodies starved into submission,
Skeletons at the danse macabre.
The cocktail’s venom is sweetened
To chase the nights down.

Pola Negri wears only black or white,
Chinchilla is her chosen fur;
Each day orchid petals are strewn
Over her dressing room floor.
See her out on Sunset Boulevard,
Taking her pet tiger for a walk;
See her riding in a white Rolls-Royce,
Two white wolfhounds at her sides,
The chauffeur all in white;
“A woman that all men desire
And none can possess.”
Ultimate freedom for the price
Of a movie ticket!

“The business of America is business,”
Says Calvin Coolidge,
As liberty sells itself to prosperity;
Bankers,executives and crooks
Hustle the White House,
And bosses beat their workers down;
What higher aim could man have
Than to make as much money as he can?
Higher than statesman,philosopher or priest
Stands the businessman,paragon
And evangelist of America,
With Jesus Christ the Chairman of the Board,
Who had “picked twelve men
From the lowest echelons of business
And forged them into an organization
That had conquered the world”.
America is the passion to sell,
And every day is an occasion to buy.

Steel,glass,concrete.Manhattan altitudes:
Skyscrapers shooting up like rockets
To Mars.The age of glamorous greed
And stupidity,lives being gambled
On the makebelieve market,
The greatest racket known to man.
Cloudwindows invite the suicidal leap;
The bull charges the matador’s cape.
In slowmotion,the tidal wave rises
To its crest,teeters,slides a little
And topples in an ecstasy of grief.