The Big Lebowski

The Dude, the Dunket and the Dust‑bowl of an American Dream

In a distant outer‑suburban strip of Nebraska
the old composer of expectation – the Dude –
sits on a battered arm‑chair, under a dim turn‑table glow,
his socks still as shaggy as a London night‑paddy.

The alley is a flat‑iron granite, echoing the clang
of pins that slip like turtles behind a fire‑brown glare;
the towel‑fanned corners, the green‑lit stripes, the scent
of stale beer and dustpan‑dust.

He mops the hardwood, thinks of cheap bocce
and the chance that every misplaced footfall brings
the collision of his fuzz‑yselled idea: a rug, a stitch.

The rug is a colour–rich collage, mad as a van‑ish mosaic;
it breaks – it falls – a cruel joke, the gravity of fate.
The Dude shrugs, "that’s the only thing that has ever stuck"
and mutterations of "abide" echo in a bath of ankles.

Walter, the brute, prints a letter in a slip of cash,
his back‑hand frets on the floor, his phrase “bitch…carried,”
calls the cops in a fable where the girls hold maim;
the big-lebowski, the rightful heir, lies grave in the house –
with an expectant gaze and a ew‑þic bump of his dark‑hair.

Across the asphalt sky, the right‑handed vision –
Jackie, the rival – climbs the roof, shakes his hair,
and the film weaves a memory – smooth–poured, slow – a
versatile mix of what is cut and what is left.

The bowl, where fame and grime pull at a frayed poem,
says: “Forget the fang, let the one you want, the living,
take picture of the permitting light, the twisted page;
and know this is the time to be eligible.

A man, a dream, a colourful rug only the Dude could send.

The audience gathers, holding their pens, awaiting the
grave fulcrum to roll.

The Dude finishes – his voice like a whisper, expensive, old.
He waves a hand, as if to say – good luck – “You’re, I’m living: the paint logically makes sense.
The curtain risings; the film closes.

All that is left are the pins, the sphinx that leans
on the quiet rhyme, the Pi‑list of the amber yogurt.

Everyone shakes hands, says: “cheers,” and drives off.
The nod of a friend in Britain, the full-coloured grin –
The Dude tells us that away with the half‑Tanner;
And "the big lebow" takes his time, telling the stars to the final: the pipe, the summery dawn ⭐️.