This horrifically awkward ménage à trois
Has never been well tailored to suit moi.
The strange fusion of poem, paper and pen
Is far too cramped for monogamous men.
I yearn to find, in this struggle of mine,
Thought and ink that seamlessly combine.
And waiting then is a clearer future
With my mind locked in that folie à deux.
My songs do not echo Ezra Pound.
(Except for now, in exaggerated meta-irony)
They do not recall the Chaucerian formality
Or find their credit in statues of dead white males.
My songs owe their life to a glimpse of roadkill
To a piece of snatched conversation
To a friend’s birthday, or satirical remark
Sure, Eliot and Apollinaire, even Shakespeare
They all creep in sometimes.
But really I owe these songs to songs.
So here’s to Frank and Max, Jesse and Laura too.
The first runs down the path to the beat of alternating street lamps
Flecks of red glisten in the slight damp of two in the morning
Tail points straight backward, the ground explored in smell
Losing interest in the grassy corner, the second comes back to the path.
An exchanged glance and they disappear from sight
Like Kierkegaard and Nietzche, to find the beauty in a rubbish bag around the corner.
You always were scared of swimming, weren’t you kid?
Terrified that the weight of it would win?
(Ironic, given you’re surrounded by the stuff)
Were you ever gonna face the fact that your feeble treading and doggy paddle won’t get you by?
Or was it always gonna be daddy’s hastily scrawled excuses?
(To whom it may concern,
Joshua has been suffering from severe asthma recently and as such I would ask that he be excused from the lesson this week.
Yours faithfully)
You always hated them didn’t you?
(Those lungs that were battered from birth)
Would it surprise you to know that in a few years’ you’ll be filling them with smoke?
Oh yeah, you never could rely on them
Oh yeah, it was never your fault
I mean, you always wanted to, didn’t you…?
I mean, you never liked the security of sitting out?
I mean, you wouldn’t embrace the comfort of your failure?
Not you, right?
So go ahead, throw yourself in for once.
You might even drown this time.
Ears pricked to eagerly meet the sound that floated over the horizon
Body tensed in nervous excitement, every inch of muscle a horse straining its rope
Head flickered for an instant, candle like, to make the final decision
And like a shell spinning out the rifle, the warren was left behind.
Over the rows of grass spears
As they fade to an asphalt shield
Trampled by the metal chariot
Lifting its eyes to the midday sun
Which fires fruitless arrows, glancing blows
That sprinkle and drop to the road below.
The day was hot
(The road shimmered)
The autos were abroad
And goddamn he wouldn’t escape this brawl.
The blind old fool shifts up a gear
A crunch and the sound of rising revs
Lurching forward up the once known road
Picking out the changes to this old path
His eyes unrolling reams of tarmac history.
Down from the bank, a naive hop, skip and jump
And his legs propel him into the concrete river
(A la fin tu es las de ce monde ancien)
Where the hot haze rises from the rumbling below
Bringing shapes and visions to attentive eyes.
But they’re swept aside, like Moses parting the sea
As he crashes through, letting waves close behind
Which fall like a shroud onto the body left in his wake
Curled up, head to paw, in leporine foetal position.
For Josh Bougourd
“Well then, boy…
You’ve been inciting rebellion, have you?
Wearing a beard, eh?
Causing riots, mmm?”
“No, no, sir,
Discussion, not rebellion.
The right to have a voice, sir
And, really, above all, comedy, sir.”
“Yes, yes, well it just won’t do,
Rules are rules and eggs is eggs.
There’s tradition, you see-“
“But, what is tradition?
Is it tradition to believe God’s good earth is flat?
Is that tradition? Being wrong, is that?
All I ask is we think about why we do what we do”
“No, no, we can’t just change,
This is the way it’s always been.
We have a reputation to uphold
And that won’t be done through grades or deeds.
The only way you’ll ever bring respect to this institution is by shaving.”
“If so, I would suggest you need to go home and pick up a razor… Sir.”
Irony, satire, sarcasm and hypocrisy. These have become almost synonymous in modern use. They are not.
Demonstration:
This is irony.
This is satire.
This is sarcasm.
This is hypocrisy.
A red steel heart that beats, and beats for you
And ev’ry clockwork tick marks new progress
Flowers, a restaurant and a new suit
High heels, bare legs, silver, little black dress
Petrach waits the tables, brings round oysters
Dessert arrives, shared with a silver spoon
Outside, shared cigarette and she shivers
Gives his jacket, they kiss under the moon
It’s not an institute that we can trust
It’s Allen’s howling Moloch, made of lies
Hollow, not made of steel, but built of rust
And playing by its time won’t make us wise
Wisdom comes from living through our own life
And hand in hand striding towards the scythe.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/p00q1hhm
My bit starts at 1:02:00.
Man of 6’ 3”, who levelled the pine trees
of my homeland was born of a woman
who lives alone now in the city; who only ever loved
...
It’s dangerous to think about
what your father would think about
your little episodes.
Your whiskey fuelled terror fit
would seem so...
