Issue 123. March 3rd - 16th 2006
Three Poems About Heroes
I fall to pieces
Crazy
For thinking that my love could hold you
By Simon James
1,2,3,4sake/The thinker and the doer/The boy with the red coat for skin
Caught the sun when he looked at the skies
Disowned by his dear mum and dad
Out of 5, he's the weirdest they had
By Daniel Rudd
Summer In A Small Town
When in July Summer’s scorchèd breath sighs And college students have said their good-byes, Locals of culturally unaware towns Don short-sleeved attire and work on their frowns.
By Andrea Wong
On Age
It occurs to me that I’m old. Older. No. Old, old, old. I don’t mind as much. In fact I don’t mind at all, were it not for the three stray white hairs protruding from the side of my left temple that, to all intents and purposes, look like they belong on another part of the anatomy…
By Paul Williamson
Beth Orton - Live at Warwick Arts Centre
Beth cut a fragile figure on stage, with her very slight frame and fringe down just over her eyes. She didn't speak too much inbetween songs, despite saying how nice it was to be in Warwick (pronouncing it in a funny way, plus also the gig wasn't in Warwick anyway!)
By Nick Kuohu
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Three Poems About Heroes
Hickory Wind
A dead weight.
A desert night
Black
Strung out
As our bootlace ties.
The gasoline smell
A faraway city
The fleeting shadow of a man with a spear
Caught in the flames.
A promise kept.
I remember the oak tree
That we used to climb
Still
Someone should say something
As a hickory wind
Blows the smoke South.
Crazy
Randy’s flyin’ the plane
I can see his neck muscles stretched taut
As he tries to hold us in the storm
I love that ol’ neck
The hair bed-tousled
From runnin’ jumpin’ an ‘ playin’
I want it all to stop
To feel his hands on my face
Play house.
The lights of Camden Tennessee pass
Low and fast
Underneath
I fall to pieces
Crazy
For thinking that my love could hold you
Zevon Heaven
I see him standing at the door of a hotel room
Somewhere downtown
Just in his underwear
With the light behind him
Reefer Clint-clamped between his teeth
A headless gunner
Letting fly with his Colt 45
Laughing as he turns his back to
Motherfuckermotherfuckermotherfucker
Ringing in his ears
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1,2,3,4sake/The thinker and the doer/The boy with the red coat for skin
1,2,3,4 SAKE
Forsake me and leave
I shall bid you no harm
Such cloaks, such daggers
Such beauty, such charm
Forsake me one
A mere drop of deceit
Inconsequential
The smallest of beasts
Forsake me two
Why, a puddle appears
Still we requient
And allay petty fears
Forsake me three
Oh, how you grow!
Tell me this lake
What horrors below?
Forsake me four
I shall, must act upon
This river before us
My friend, long gone
Forsake me five
The damage complete
These waters flow
No sounds discreet
Forsake me six
Such pity, such shame
An ocean apart
We'll forever remain
THE THINKER AND THE DOER
The thinker thought the doer did too much
The doer did his best but he was out of touch
The thinker out thought him in every way
The doer did himself in the very next day
The doer's funeral was a sombre affair
Lots of things being done yet with little flair
The thinker thought much sadness about this
As he dragged a rusty blade across both wrists
It's not what you think
It's not what you do
It's not what you've done
It's what you've thought through
THE BOY WITH THE RED COAT FOR SKIN
The boy with a red coat for skin
So peculiar, where to begin?
Two big brown buttons for eyes
Caught the sun when he looked at the skies
Disowned by his dear mum and dad
Out of 5, he's the weirdest they had
In the town, people stop to stare
As he aged, his skin got thread bare
But HALT!
This is not a tale of woe
For there are some things that you should know
This boy was indeed very blessed
Never cold, even when undressed
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Summer In A Small Town
When in July Summer’s scorchèd breath sighs And college students have said their good-byes, Locals of culturally unaware towns Don short-sleeved attire and work on their frowns. (Some big city folks may envy dark tans But their less metro cousins prefer ceiling fans.) Businessmen still make their daily commutes To office, to pub, the simplest of routes, While at home, their young daughters, hopelessly bored, Kiss bad boys behind the Church of Our Lord. There’s nowhere to go, and not much to do— The matinee is showing nothing new. The heat’s enough to set a man reeling, Making trips to the grocery sound more appealing.
So I, quite alone, under clear blue skies, Dressed in hat and sunglasses in a sort of disguise, Decided to make my own brand of fun, Ride the bus into town, and see what could be done. With camera in hand, I, th’ amateur spy, Locked my small yellow house, and stepped outside. I’ve not learned to drive, so I don’t own a car; And my bike, well, it lacks a handlebar. Therefore, a few words on transportation: Busses don’t run during summer vacation. The only way for one to get around Is to swallow all pride… and take the short bus to town; Or, in this case, the one Handi-Dart©, Which takes twice as long, and stops at Wal-Mart®.
I skipped ‘round the corner to the van stop, Sat down on the bench, and straightened my top. In my pocket were some coins all my own; I’d had just enough for a small ice-cream cone. As I started to hum a sweet pop song I was cut short as my ride came along. The door opened up, and I climbed inside Wondering who I would soon sit beside.
The van driver nodded, then smiled hello. He was young, I think, twenty-two or so. Under his cap his hair lay, straight and dark And further below, his eyes danced with a spark. A recently graduated young man, He’d chosen to op’rate this humble van In lieu of finding a proper career. (Attempting to do so was his biggest fear.) His father worked for a medical firm While his stylist mother had mastered the perm. They urged their son towards architecture, But he preferred film, this much he was sure. Images and sounds—life sans touch or smell— Were his own heaven’ blueprints were his hell. This conflict involved so much of his mind That for Handi-Dart driver he’d cladly signed. He needed to think. Delay was his game. Come fall, he’d run off to indie-film fame. But how could he tell his mother and dad That movies were the only love he’d had?
I walked down the aisle to the very back seat. (I prefer to observe people before we meet.)
There was a professor of Russian prose Whose thick spectacles on th’ edge of his nose Resembled the jars from canning season— Certainly, they were thick beyond reason. His thin sweater hung off his crumpled chest In such a way that it might have been best Tucked o’er his lap as a blanket of sorts. His mind dwelled only on distant ports The likes of which he had seen in his youth. He was a traveller and a scholar both, forsooth; Though, not anymore, unfortunately— Old age had rendered him stationary. His gaze was bewildered, his manner mild; His mouth hung open like that of a child. Retired for years, he’d moved back to the street On which he and his smiling girl used to meet When they were both young, and their love fresh and new. He missed her with sadness; devotedness, too. A trip to the store is a fine distraction; Racks of new knick-knacks bring him satisfaction.
The prof’s corrected peripheral curve Detected a girl with sufficient nerve— Enough, anyway, to pierce her own lip, Among other parts, she’d defiantly quip. Though she’s slept in the streets of the big city, She would scowl if you offered the least bit of pity, For her homelessness was a choice she had made— From her parents’ house she had permanently strayed. Her mother went out of her way to do favours For this child who now kept comp’ny with ravers. True, she had had her own reason to leave: In her mother’s religion she could not believe. So, she found others with similar passions: Veganism and studded fashions. She still made trips to go see her mother. (They fought and they cried, but still loved each other.) Today, she was leaving the countryside, Going to town and then bumming a ride To take her back to her life of punk rock And bold hairstyles dyed purple, intended to shock. Humming a tune, she drummed on her knees While a young mum looked on disapprovingly.
The mother, herself, only thirty-three Loved her two young children most tenderly. A fine young Madonna, she was ample of bust, With freckles speckled o’er her cheeks, like dust. A good country girl, she was muscular Driving by tractor or pick-up, not car. Her thick, long blonde hair hung over her eyes. Which were grey and large, but creased at the sides. Her husband and she tried their very best To make ends meet, often going without rest. Despite the struggle, the work and the stress, She loved the farm dearly, she confessed. Making use of the land, they grew their own food. Though bills went unpaid, life was always good. Her blue denim shorts were spotted with dirt; A starched white blouse served as her shirt. She was a woman of necessity; Practical in her sensibility. She’d a score of errands today to run And of course, her children had wanted to come.
Clinging to her hands were a girl and boy. They were twins; a two-fold bundle of joy. The girl’s chin was set angrily While the boy hung his head submissively. The spat had been over the window seat. Their cheeks were flushed because of the heat (Well, that or anger, I couldn’t decide, But they remained red-faced for the rest of the ride). Of the two, the girl was the bigger child And, it appeared, had a temper quite wild. Quiet, more reserved was the little boy, Though I got the impression he was just being coy. A life outdoors suited her quite well But to him, the country life was a tough sell. He vastly preferred the indoors to out. He liked to mutter; his sister liked to shout. There was one mannerism that they shared— They fought for everything they thought was theirs. Their mother, between them, sat quietly. A comical, lovely family of three.
I relished the warm gusty wind through my hair, And wondered if of me these folks were aware. As under the tires the road became smoother, I knew the town was getting ever closer.
The van arrived at our destination; The Wal-Mart Centre gas station. We stood up slowly, unfolding with caution Then parted ways, going all directions.
I stepped to the sidewalk, a little bit dazed And back towards the bus, my eyes I raised. I lifted my camera, and snapped a shot Of the short bus—still the best picture I’ve got.
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On Age
It occurs to me that I’m old. Older. No. Old, old, old. I don’t mind as
much. In fact I don’t mind at all, were it not for the three stray white
hairs protruding from the side of my left temple that, to all intents and
purposes, look like they belong on another part of the anatomy…
So, with age comes wisdom.
Right.
I live in a building filled with lawyers and surveyors and maybe a politician or two. Most, if not all, slightly older than me. Maybe there is another teacher in the building slightly younger than me. The thing that bemuses me is that I never hear any noise from said inhabitants of said building. Not even the inane drone of a television. Let alone singing. Singing.
I sing all the time. I make words up. I never remember what I said from one minute to the next. I sing when I leave the living room to go to the bathroom. Sometimes I rap and do funny scratching noises with my throat and move my hand in a jittery horizontal motion as if I am actually a DJ, actually on a turntable. Actually.
And I drum. I make bongo noises and I sometimes try to do drum machine noises of the type that New Order would be proud of.
Walking to work I pretend I am about to go onstage somewhere and I spend the time pondering my selection of the best opening song. It has to feel vital and alive. Just lately my muse has been acoustic. Suede, bathing in the first light of that first dalliance with fame, used to start their shows with a song called (if I remember correctly and, being old, older, old, old, old, I may not) ‘The Next Life’. It swooned and dripped like honey for the soul- all piano and not much more. A thousand hip young so-called indie yet not quite ready to give up mummy and daddies allowance indie- kids were caught, for a minute, slightly off their winsome guard. So, an acoustic opening when walking to work has become an option of late.
But at night, at home, I remember I am Bryan Robson or Georgie Best, and I alternate my voice between that of Brian Moore and that of 58,504 spectators. I celebrate imaginary trophies, World Cups, and I interview myself after the match.
Lately though, I have been perfecting my wrestling moves. Pile-driving pillows and clotheslining her when she least expects it. My forearm smash, it seems, has permanently damaged the bedsprings (much to her chagrin- bedsprings, it seems, are usually broken by lust and copulation, not Mick McManus wannabes).
Still, this is the way of the world, and I am happy for it.
So, old, older, old, old, old. I’m still what I always was and I hope
everybody else is too. Somehow I haven’t changed in million years. Apart
from the aforementioned pubic growth on my left temple.
I feel a song coming on, don’t you?