Flesh Parade

Lawrence Block has this to say about Flesh Parade: "FLESH PARADE was first published in 1962 by Midnight Reader, a sister imprint of Nightstand Books. The title was supplied by an editor, and we'll never know what my own title may have been. The publisher was fond of two-word titles, often with favorite words: Flesh, Slut, Lust. They could slip past the censors while letting the reader know what kind of book he was getting."I've had a complicated relationship with my early pseudonymous books. There was a time when I rejoiced in the fact that they had not been printed on acid-free paper. With time I came first to accept and acknowledge the work of Andrew Shaw and Sheldon Lord, and eventually to put my shoulder to the wheel and bring all those early titles back into print. The twin engines of Ego and Avarice are largely responsible for the change, but where would I ever have been without them?"As one reviewer once wrote of a long-forgotten novel, 'For people who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing they like.' Here's a taste of Flesh Parade; perhaps it will help you determine if this is the sort of thing you like."A concert, he thought. A stupid broad playing bongos. Just what he wanted.Then a man about thirty years old came out onto the stage. He was very tall and very gaunt, thin as a rail, and he had a neat goatee hanging from his chin. He carried a few sheets of paper in one hand. He stood motionless on the stage and looked out at the audience for about a minute. Then his left foot began tapping in time to the bongo drums that the girl was playing.He tapped for a while. Then he began to read the poems from the sheets of yellow paper. He read: "My name is Elijah, you nonbelievers, And I came from the Valley of Death in Kansas CityWhere the smoke rises gray from the stockyardsChurning and aching in the morning groan of lust.Hear me, sinners. This is the world's end, Let the lion lie down with the lamb, let the animalsWail, 'til the whales quake. Hear me, foolsHear the song of the brakeman on a swift train westWith hobos jungle-happy, and everybody swinging, And totality grooving like a mother's son-But what do we call that sweet little old ladyNow that mother is a dirty word?"There was more, of course. Tony didn't listen to it. Everybody else seemed to be listening, and as far as he could tell they found the reading most meaningful. But as far as Tony was concerned, the poet was full of crap. If he was saying anything, Tony didn't understand it. And he didn't give a damn.He ignored the poet and concentrated on the rest of the room. The orange-haired broad on the stage was really wailing away with the bongos, and occasionally she got so carried away that all you could hear was her drumming. She drowned out the poet, which was a rare blessing, although she wasn't much better. Like the obscene paintings on the walls, it had to be art.Otherwise there was no excuse for it.Still, the beat cats and broads seemed to be moved by the performance. The two dykes gave up their chess game to pay attention to the poem. The cat in the Eisenhower jacket went on feeling under one girl's skirt, but he quit talking to the other one about Baudelaire so that he could spend his time tuning in on what the poet was saying. Even the waitress quit taking orders. She too was listening to the poet.Tony tried again-"Once upon a time a man named HannibalHad crabs and lice and impetigoAnd saddle sores from all those elephants.He was the roamingest noble of them allTo sacrifice the falling world and allFor one gray cat-"Now if that made any sense at all, Tony thought, he must be crazy. Poetry had never particularly knocked him out, although he'd gotten a chuckle or two from some epics inscribed on various outhouse walls. He picked up his coffee cup and drained it, then set down the cup and got another cigarette starte