"When You Decide Not to Be Boring, Call Me" He Said
There was this fit litmus left along the ground untendered and she wept there, a bled scar. If only whereabouts [in chains] he was the serpent in her Edith Hamilton. She didn't walk well in the morning light. He was never anywhere. The culprit had a sound about it and her eardrums rang shut. Overcast is one thing. In a dim or not quite moment he would turn only in conversation rabid for there had been nothing for a long time to begin with or retort. Madness is finding like minds where no like minds have been fostered. Various art movements, she thought. And the cream sky went dead like post curfew Ann Arbor maybe. Maybe someplace else. He walked ahead of her along the opposite street side. It would often have been winter where she coughed. Just history. The kind of thing nobody majors in.
inspired by Dylan Thomas: "I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking"
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking. Waiting, frozen words unsaid, yet screaming loud. Silent crying, woven in ancient memories. Aching. Foreseen in silence; out breaking words soughed.
Waiting, frozen words unsaid, yet screaming loud. Grievous verdict. Hide, hide, here is no place; no hide. Foreseen in silence; out breaking words soughed. By passing me by, saying "live", I say "live". He untied.
Grievous verdict. Hide, hide, here is no place; no hide. My genesis, so cursed by men, ab ovo under His wing. By passing me by, saying "live", I say "live". He untied. Had to get rid of the grudge, the hate, the harsh acting.
My genesis, so cursed by men, ab ovo under His wing. Reborn by blood to life so precious, part of the bride. Had to get rid of the grudge, the hate, the harsh acting. Freed by the Son. No legal ground. No more backslide.
Reborn by blood to life so precious, part of the bride. Silent crying, woven in ancient memories. Aching. Freed by the Son. No legal ground. No more backslide. I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking.
This would be a good day to go sailing this would be a fine time to tune fiddles there's little wind I wouldn't call it galing there's questions in the form of cozy riddles this would be a fine time to tune fiddles if only one were schooled in how to play there's questions in the form of cozy riddles they need small answers or petite dismay
if only one were schooled in how to play concertos and sonatas would be beckoning they need small answers or petite dismay a smile or yawn a sense of idle reckoning concertos and sonatas would be beckoning the audience all hushed up in the rafters a smile or yawn a sense of idle reckoning at every phrase a promise of hereafters
the audience all hushed up in the rafters the sonata as a boat amid its blueness at every phrase a promise of hereafters the schertzo fills with tales of olden newness the sonata as a boat amid its blueness mightn't the painting finally find unveiling? the schertzo fills with tales of olden newness this would be a good day to go sailing
=======
This poem's first line is borrowed the following passage of Ann Lauterbach's poem "Tangled Reliquary":
This would be a good day to go sailing Or to wash the car, but I have Neither boat nor car. There's a plotless web In the air like a banner pulling us along Into something to look back on. . . .
from Clamor (1991)
This is one among a sequence, Early Autumn Pantoums
An interesting and ambitious utterance Scalljah, reminding a little bit of some approaches to emotion explored by Rilke -- though pulled here thru the postmod skewer, one might say. A phrase that has me puzzling is "to iron the din of sadism"; but the verb seems to suggest "to smooth out." The word sadism pulls dinny dissonances in its wake, no doubt, and rather ironizes (or hazards doing so) the overall tone. (I'm not quite a fan of this phrase; but then, it's not my poem.) Whether "to iron" can be to smoothe through irony, could seem a curious question. (Does irony smoothe, or wrinkle? If the latter, is this a case of irony being ironic?) The trail of repurposed words is an interesting / tricky one, certainly. It calls for close reading.
eternity anvils come in garden motion having moan pink flowers like ever ribcage sphere scraps tongue reality down entire lies eye how orchard pivot the arms' tune restless circles touch exquisite lobby of soft unique wood and kisses the mathematical flowers amethyst curves into sliding bells breakfast throats squirm information rubies go she endowed meaning piano dementias there's border sweet hotel in light nodes shipless abstraction princesses a soft distance dream flame sluices chateau dear no complete seems to hips maybe hand apartment there red feels flowed objective cottages evening distraction ever verbal moisture graze the now bed evident hip chateaus theatrical organs is topaz tender grocery idea nippled courtyard galloping sapphire meadows flashy request thick awkward baby with metamorphosis fables elevator petals sent faces in young since steps strutting glass poses seemed uninhabited metal springs to gray know existence of shipless buildings be the twin room balls impressionistic the skin the plan golden parlor the the the word big meaning maybe we made something forgotten hello excruciating beauty of heavy prince distraction the polar dresses become altars become flared whispers reach no one these grips running delusions regret the keepers' one year magenta full-blown thunder farm
why don't you stop why don't I stop paying attention why don't you discover or devise supple alternatives to guarding your life that seems not to be at risk why don't I try to breathe again why don't you learn not to pay attention why don't I use my legs to walk into another room why don't you learn again to breathe why does authority even invisible weigh so much what legacy becomes inferred what is the meaning of the stones what is the meaning of unpolished stones of what specific use is varnish to the memory
pardon me for I have reasoning to do and I have feathering to think about I have tender offers to consider such as the proposed gift silence I have so far helped to fill with antonyms partly on account of nouns in jeopardy of being verbs against their will
when I write letters I use ink that makes the whiteness or the beigeness of the paper pop into a reserved young minuet of eyesight welcome home to felt potential where it's quiet and you keep your sorrow and your fear away unto yourself or you dissolve the makings of my heartache on behalf of something we believe we share for we have constantly for years shared something
Ah, for days green and almost raining, with no words but those spoke by you, nudged and produced, as a bell which stores memory of melody in its hull. Water spreads wet;
Your speech makes words, such as friend, which I'd like to hear again, along with further addendums I'm too cautious to ask for.
Please don't wince-- you know how a church bell stops ringing at midnight and awaits leaden and tremulous to pronounce the eighth morning hour?
So I, struck by love before, left untold with the night hours, see in your eye-gleam a morning beam to toll! My heart, a dangling clapper
reels in my chest, an iron umbrella protecting; I swear it's not sadism but a need for chimes urges me to throw myself upon my own heart again for the din produced, for the arrival signified thereby.
All I wish is to ring the day sing its hours, one hum for each hour within each hour, and the four steps approaching. (Ah, the Basilica's beloved thoughts!)
Knowing as I do the darkness of belfry nights, all I wish is to ring the day, announce love's advent: the hour that gives purpose to bells.
Gnawing serenely on the wheel of life Leaves arching morosely over our exposed heads, wheezing gently Navigating carefully on terrain dotted with bloodied, gaping maws Threatening to spill the arcane secrets of untold millennia spent loafing under screaming skies
Divine procreation, unreadable, untranslatable, and gasping at light from the stars
Effulgent wetness creeping up on the copper gates to the arena. The overwhelming stench of evaporated alcohol left abandoned in cups for the miasma to sniff at. Sheer wonder. Child-like amazement. Emeralds howling with pent-up rage in the rafters, terror-stricken at the sudden onrush of white on white, myriad sheets of empty oblivion waging their war on the churning sleep of rusting spires
Smoke blanketing all transmissions. A few scragglers huddle into each other, hiding their eyes in awe at what they sense will come. Some attempt to communicate their surrender by loudly proclaiming undying loyalty to the unfurled clouds of id. Others wait timidly, bibles in back-pockets appearing now as so much straw
Revelations begin to rush in from the outside, melting the surface of the playing-field into aquatic blue liquid. Some people start frothing at the mouth, bleeding from ears that no longer hear. Others speak in strange tongues before diving in, never to reemerge.
A dark grey plucked bones from our madness, ageing us decades in the process
Perfidious spirits concealed in the distant thunder. Our hallucinations running desolate alleyways with emaciated rodents and optical larvae. The frenzy to learn new dances to win desire again. Commerce and labour croak their mutual forgiveness at each other amidst the looting. Money hides in fear behind black fishnets left to spy alone on wounded flesh wandering between rows of cold machinery. To traverse piles of rotting teeth laying in wait for unwary beasts to pass.
Brief flickerings return once more. Levees bray their gratitude at every recording surface imaginable
Peace perfumes our sweating, chases the marauding hordes of blue away at last. Flesh re-carved passion on the swollen purple flanks running frozen through the empty aisles of the urine-god then
Just as we all realize there is a stillness in each of us that is eternal and cannot die
walking around the sitting room i turn the television off sitting beside you i look into your eyes as the sound of motor cars fades in the night time i swear i saw your face change it didn't seem quite right and it's hey now baby your supper's waiting for you and it's hey now baby don't you know our love is true...
this bemoans the rape of goodness from human bloodlines horror sweetens the vampiric fangs whoring civilization the beast upgraded kaleidoscopic indifference warps the conscience you retch for rewards in the claustrophobic quickening the piper's delight in salivating seeds relentless
The fifth issue of melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is online now, featuring work by:
Amy King - Ana Bozicevic-Bowling - Brian Howe - Brian Lucas - Craig Perez - Danielle Pafunda - Jana Putrle Srdic - Janet Holmes - Jill Jones - Jen Hofer - Lisa Fishman - Elisa Gabbert - Novica Tadic - Bruce Covey - TA Noonan
Art by C.E. Laine and Ira Joel Haber
melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is an online bi-weekly journal of poetry and curious bits, co-edited by Andrew Lundwall and Francois Luong.
salt water plum blouse overcast resplendent house novocaine Gesualdo frankincense miraculum fall pins nominative case an aspirin new off-white shorts a page out of our midst mistaken premises cut-short daisies romance to the fourth "scared to the wind" from Linda are you glistening?
My Hurt Feelings Want to Be Backlit Before Engaging in Heartfelt Suppression of Their Circumstance
The sole mutuality that I can glut is of a piece. Romance, remember, merely blots. It does not delve beneath the level whiplash that feeds overcast with constantly impartial shadows. I feel empathy the way you brush a blond hand over the Black Lab.
My hurt is tinged with an ancestral drive toward an inane disarmament. I shoulder weaponry I think I made myself. I write my hurt into the circumstantial overdose of knowing that dearth carries wish lists far from skin as silk.
Oh my darling boxcar buff, why do you card your feelings at the door to different sensibilities? Is it the confines, or the love of flat and forward surfaces that overtake the bounty of a rumored natural light?
I am on the lookout for an armload of carnations that can work in any room resisting staleness at the heart. I am party to cranial sacral work. I want to pierce the homeland insecurity rumored to extract a natural fit from its near mate. Until our hearts are driven to a partner moon, how will I enter space I have fogotten to invent as you are claiming land while squatting in my light?
The pleasing sense of invention shows the controlledvirtue of what one might almost characterize as a calibrated or proportionate degree of obscurantism. Encouraging to see this curiously detailed introspection "in the lyric tradition."
If you go to Beck's site and read his pieces on the greek philosophers, this is where 85% of the words came from, roughly in the order you read them, but snipped out of the full context of this voluminous stack of info.
A cut and past job, but I think the last stanza is mine. What happened was this - I cycled along the coast from Sutton to Dublin. It was dark, around 1am and very windy, but I heard a tune out to sea, but it was so soft and the wind so raw, that I could not sense where it was coming from. I thought maybe it was coming from Howth, 1500 or so meteres to my left over the sea. Maybe the wind was blowing it over from there from a session on the hillside. After a short while I began to suspect it was not originating from an outside reality, but the otherworld. Sirens out at sea communing a first glimpse of the blueprint delineating what score beyond human consciousness my soul is tuned to and plays in this world.
I was hearing my inner watermark whistling - no doubt about it - and whilst the two first notes where always the same, after they sounded the tune played a few more - very swift notes - and then trailed off beyond the edge of hearing, but kept returning, never playing the same snip of tune twice.
The wind was definately the defining force of this lightly heard phonomena.
Once I passed Bull Island I sensed the buffer of force dispell and it came again once more, twenty minutes after dissolving - later as I wheeled out of a wind swept Dublin bay and into urban shelter - a sort of final pip of luck and au revior from my daemon just after I thought the episode had ceased and so dismiss attaching any significance to what had occured in pitch dark along the storm swept bay.
A sigil for me to engage in the act of composing with the words of others.
Trackmarks Linear stigmata of addiction Tomorrow's scar tissue constellations disfiguring the body of work Phonetic glyphs of abstract correspondence Their outlines traced in blood Shrinking from the spike or splattering across the page A ring a ring o' rosies Moments when the final things are said Exposed in a brutal waterslap of clarity In the coupling of the sinful and the divine There's a fine line to be crossed Sequences of discrete but regular consummation inter-penetrating the punctured bodies with the syrup poison of transgressive desire Wasping decorations Fading in time from some Long lost personal campaign Along cablestitch flesh Lesions where the world has entered us These tender spots Rubbed by unconscious gesture Til they stand chafed and pert Prized in their shame Less they scab over With our ability to be touched Behind the scenes of the crazy ward in all cried out lucidity Doubting Doctor Thomas Pressing our wounds in the chemical light of analysis The marking on our skins The words we choose to speak The nettle of awareness we nurse Haphazard paths through the wilderness Creasing the undergrowth with bruised stalks Discernible only by the spoor of some animal long passed Tiny clues to unknowable awareness Patterned sigils in the drying clay Trackmarks
But the sundial smiled in the rain is this how irony begins? like the premonition of pain that's appealing shimmery with fins? is this how irony begins? one's unable does that make one Cain? that's appealing shimmery with fins but to whom does it now appertain?
one's unable does that make one Cain? the sardines come delivered in tins but to whom does it now appertain? the losses seem more than the wins the sardines come delivered in tins the roses were featured with thorns the losses seem more than the wins the drummers soon paused for the horns
the roses were featured with thorns the violets remembered fond springs the drummers soon paused for the horns while compassion flowed through normal things the violets remembered fond springs the bison recall vanished days while compassion flowed through normal things little words were employed to sing praise
the bison recall vanished days the mountain redreams olden seasons little words were employed to sing praise every rhyme grew nostalgic for reasons the mountain redreams olden seasons the circus now pines for the road every rhyme grew nostalgic for reasons personalities sometimes implode
the circus now pines for the road the frog thought about all the flies personalities sometimes implode it's presumably hard being wise the frog thought about all the flies the baker delights in the grain it's presumably hard being wise but the sundial smiled in the rain
a singular warmth to your tongue. within my passageways to stare into the end of the world. the discovery of fire. known halcyon wetness. fermenting the smooth, brown crying her eyes. a private slurring of shared nomenclatures as if morality warranted. making our masks move forward fear brought hydrogen to a dark chant. way too long as a Phoenix carouse drunkenly. only green and black tonight. out here climbing passion of a musical syntax. needing to push legs into the earth astonish symmetry with two maniacs. raised curtains of wonder after the initial deluge of madness. tracing the line of muscle curving along something resembling the absolute. reclaiming you the symbolic intertwining in your hard gasps. built an alliance with the night. to leave the totality alone in your moisture a war beneath shining. travel across the white. your city meets my city. air gently heaving from alert breasts. drunk before noon paper betyween ideology. ready to become dark again. besotten driving a secret into the unconscious. shredded denim. stroking lying beside the highway. playful light through exploded beds of hate a different future etched on your cheek. brief love seen in the arc possible in exquisiite hardness. anchors to have. an intimation of our nudity. design automatic. complex and flawless flowing the ancestors burnt in our kiss anomaly nine direct
Call me child, close the door between this and the other room. The wood of the old chair by the window in your kitchen warms the eyes to see it behind them, formed and placed in mind.
I want to keep going,
enjoy the musculature of resilience, know it is not mania to burn the chair in whatever panic, but to thereafter gather the ash, glue to make plywood out of the dust, and sit again anew
poised upon tired old metaphors alluding to the cruelty inherent in your every kiss dilated, reaching for those blue-eyed cells. sweat lamps ask for time out of breath silver with fear, conflating tassels with talking drum patterns scorched into the very heat of night. two names working feverishly to repair the pet labia absorbed in the irate moods of a quiet sea this evening. with sudden bursts of ennui to sop at news of a torrid affair unafraid to become diffuse and splash tears of joy powered by numinous wings of silk, frayed but alive with the black gaze of a scorpion not even fit to travel alone in public without love bloodying willing mouths to moth sadness at evolution stripping the sun of charred, broken designs that echo with the supreme elegance of your own dark magic.
Improvisation #WD40 time was a poisoned distinction as red as vertebrae attests to silent alarms lining my libido with a manic veracity to forego one stab at eternity aligning cruel breasts who remind us continually of nouns and vowels in a neon-blue room after rescusitating fallen stars missing your strange smile and sweet, hairy cube already. wonder stigmas lugging our coded ennui left beneath the ruins wandering barefoot through your face's creative career flying communal fear over worn dollar bills starving to death thousands living below the bottom line daily behaviour concealing the mark of a plan carcinogenic next to denim kisses left on morphing epistemologies. a fiend sizzling less talk.
i've encountered a serious problem with my web service tonight...melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks domain name www.melancholiastremulousdreadlocks.com has been shut down...until i can find the best solution to this problem work can be viewed here (please pardon the rather unattractive adverstisements):
Placed in a parallel-world, I live in gel-like glass I open my mouth to speak, words come out in bubbles. I spell the letters. It makes no sense since subtitles are missing.
Where were you when subtitles were missing? It makes no sense to spell the letters from words heard in bubbles. I open my mouth to speak, I touch gel-like glass placed in a parallel-world.
A text message from my phone to a new number a friend gave it to me I didn't save it, that friend, she related a story about another friend giving my old lover a blowjob. A funny story, I pressed my tongue into the ulcer in my mouth and listened.
There is grapefruit oil to smell tho I can't smell it, evaporating in hot water, I live with three boys now and that's what a girl's gotta do.
We make fun of their cocks but we're mad missing something is missing.
There's been no reply, here we are, print outs papering the desk, a notebook and a word document, inkstained to the teeth, we look for music and clickaway too-young girls, stars between their legs, imagined faces outside of the frame.
They. Us. We offer ourselves like pralines.
Stale coffee in my mouth and my friend's mouth on him over and over and over in I press my tongue in further.
No reply.
Stale coffee and my reflection in a black window I look up and fall in I'm out to sea floating out trailing ballast, pens and papers, pixels and grapefruit oil
(I used to post a great deal long ago but now I don't, if I do it's all still in progress)
A text message from my phone to a new number a friend gave it to me I didn't save it, that friend, she related a story about another friend giving my old lover a blowjob. A funny story, I pressed my tongue into the ulcer in my mouth and listened.
There is grapefruit oil to smell tho I can't smell it, evaporating in hot water, I live with three boys now and that's what a girl's gotta do.
We make fun of their cocks but we're mad missing something is missing.
There's been no reply, here we are, print outs papering the desk, a notebook and a word document, inkstained to the teeth, we look for music and clickaway too-young girls, stars between their legs, imagined faces outside of the frame.
They. Us. We offer ourselves like pralines.
Stale coffee in my mouth and my friend's mouth on him over and over and over in I press my tongue in further.
No reply.
Stale coffee
my reflection in a black window.
I look up fall in and I'm out at sea floating trailing ballast - pens, papers pixels and grapefruit oil
I used to post a lot long ago but now do not 'n if I do it's all still
in progress.
~
Good stuf. A willingness to share the raw stuff in its earliest form. Over the last year you have really flowered on the page and your work instantly spotted. This is the first time I did not immediately recognise your form, and was very pleased - at reaching the end of this piece glued'ish from the start - to see it was you. This indicates ever deepening faith in yourself as Art maker and it is good to see a fellow blosom in as many roads as their mind wanders in our search for the centre of what poetic nuts we harvest.
I look up fall in and I'm out at sea floating trailing ballast - pens, papers pixels and grapefruit oil
I used to post a lot long ago but now do not 'n if I do it's all still
in progress.
~
Good stuf. A willingness to share the raw stuff in its earliest form. Over the last year you have really flowered on the page and your work instantly spotted. This is the first time I did not immediately recognise your form, and was very pleased - at reaching the end of this piece glued'ish from the start - to see it was you. This indicates ever deepening faith in yourself as Art maker and it is good to see a fellow blosom in as many roads as their mind wanders in our search for the centre of what poetic nuts we harvest.
Please forgive me this is the correct comment. I omiitted to cut the lengthy erotica start.
Sitting in front of Amsterdam Falafel at two o'clock in the morning with my cheroot the traffic yet flows there's always the noise of people we attend to the branch but nobody knows the root
a million scenes appear on the screen of thought if the tale is bitter or sweet who can complain? there's someone who strums a guitar across the street I don't know the tune and can't make out the refrain
rubbed teak man also cardboard man unleaded man thus reaching man arranged man consistently displayed man all light year man you lean man keen minded man good ear man and delivered man as industrious as infringed on man you handled man quiescent man contrite man you prolific man street savvy man a known advisory man
david, whatever you put up yesterday was a beautiful piece... please re-------------------post it, it's not the same as what's on your blog... or maybe i'm wrong...
Harry, what I put up in comment was the same poem but in an initial draft; I think it lacked the middle 6 lines (so it was 12 lines long -- the first 6 + the last 6; -- but I believe they were the same lines as on blog; anyway, whatever they were, they exit no more as such). ;-) cheers, d.i.
love in print. Desire. Speak. Affirm reality and myth, hear "One" in the music of what happens. Thermal reality.
Earth and the Unforgettable Fire. All nought but a good sun, warm, dry, wet and never cold. Nirvana.
You too.
~
All because of you who move in mysterious ways. Gloria. Even better than the real thing, believing life returns
when we breathe no more and pass to shade. You be loving first fan
companion letter. Me and you two'ish proof that in print life is nought but confusion, sh! Listen, knowing-ones rattle and hum sound.....
~
ing.
"All along the watchtower.....All I want is you." Too logical a signature from an artist of sound
believing music is a gift bestowed by a good - Sun-Faced-Bono-Ogma.
Ogma?
~
I am he. God of sound - music in Irish myth.... Group? Tuatha De Dannan - pronounced two-a-haw-day-donon.
On the land?.... 300 years, circa 1500'ish BC. Knowing-ones. Know about sound. Spells. Do magic
in language. Change physical shape with words alone. The Sons of Mil? Orphan's. Invaders from the sea who came and seized power -
circa 1000-500'sh BC...Vanquished then banished TDD under- ground. My clan - now faery or wee folk. Sons of Mil? Fifth and final
"wave of of invaders." I taught them to write in Ireland from 5C on. First recorders of her civil law, written as myth "happened." Fresh from
memory onto pages time forgot. Fact.
~
I, me, we, Ogma - call me what you will - plays a simple 3 string instrument of magic. Each sound has the same effect on all listeners.
Sound from String one. Listener feels joy and only love. Boogie.
Travolta happens; action, natures force, dancing to Jacko. Off the Wall. Thriller. Springsteen at Superdome; Lansdowne or Croker, deadly.
String two. Utter sorrow; terminal misery, zero jiggy - torpor of all time; the sound for suicide. Ballymun flats 100 feet up, jump.
Pluck three? Lull all to slumber with this note, strain - string call them what you will. I sound reality.
~
My trained-noise-workers had a thousand years in print. Before that we were druids. Made magic with voice only. No ink.
Filidh. Plural of ,fili or "poets", who scribbled an unbroken path for centuries, until the 17'th collapsed society abruptly and we stopped for a hiatus or caesura
~
We paused. Scorched earth forced us to flee and surrender beneath my
~
wave when a take-over bid with lots of teething troubles kicked in and we lost generations, as Penal law replaced the code. 100%. We
became outlaws at home when a stroke of the quill on a bill made it illegal to speak in gaeilge. Our native tongue. A simple contract
written in plain English for subjects, unable to speak it. What about Status Quo? Only on paper; making a show with no native fans in attendance, happen.
Anglo had to import his own. Plants. We were driven mental by a support act's demand for top billing on our stage. Anglo, ceaselessly plucking my string of woe.
"Subjects" begging monarchy to stop. Calling for "play-fair" and the return of ourbono life. Ogma to stop the misery
chord. Noise joy; in the uninterrupted status quo of a good reality conjured from myth Anglo made illegal. No shit.
~ All Because of You
Monday - Mount Temple School notice board, Larry puts it up. Saturday - September '75. Seven kids in Mullen's kitchen. There about the ad.
-1985 - four onstage at Wembley. Live Aid. "I have climbed the highest mountain, I have run through the field.."..from the dressing room, through the wings
only to be with you. Up the scaffold. Silent; hugging a world who came that day. Larry wasn't happy. He thought of walking off
stage. He wanted to play; for me to sing. Let the planet hear Gloria "in the name of love.."... Party Girl. I Will Follow. Us. U2; who happen
at Landsdowne Road, Ballsbridge, Yankee Stadium, Redrock - latest hit from the catalogue. Mid-eighties. Miami. Crocket and Tubbs undercover
in a speedboat. Don in white linen. Wham at the height of their power Bowie and Jagger "dancing in the street" - Phil Collins to Boston by concorde.
~
Peter and Ivan only lasted two weeks after first rehearsal; or was it a month? Dick's brother - Dave - who happens from the platform - Edge
happened in the core that July weekend. He too is part practice; life, creation; call it what you will, Larry.
Love deposit here; immediately, please. "It's a beautiful day.."
~
drop beneath my wave, stay addicted to faith sound the magic. We’re all - word for word - as
good when spoken simple, direct and kind.
Sincerely Yours
~
Julie Andrews and U 2 on top of Howth hill.
Over and out for now; lover, letter-in-law. Go beneath
~
break feet and walk with St Paul and I. Mind that bag of mint imperials; or are they the oil-rig toffee Jackie
Stewart "doodle doo"d about; in the pit-stop on Saturday Grandstand, or was it Tiswas?
~
Mirror-mirror on Arthur Scargill's wall, make Art fairest of them all.
Answer in song; if Arthur was "...in a hotel room in New York City, round about the time a
friend of ours, er - Little Steven - was putting together a record of Artists Against Apartheid..."
~
..or at the miners conference in Scarborough at a Wheels of Steel disco? Rod Stewart on the karaoke? "Wake up Maggie
I think I 've got something to say to you...". Hollering for fights benefit night at the train station, Doncaster branch;
or was it Maddison Square Garden, Art sung "..about a man in a shantytown outside of Johannesburg, who is
sick of looking down the barrel of white South Africa. A man who is at the point where he is ready to take up
arms against his oppressor. A man who has lost faith in the peacemakers of the West, who argue and fail to
~
support a man like Bishop Tutu and his request for economic sanctions against South Africa."
Arthur was heard - at his bungalow in Scunthorpe, for tea and a Sarnie. Chicken in a basket later that night, when
he starred on the picket line with Billy Bragg, demanding a bitta wedge. It was only a quid.
"Am I buggin' you? I don't mean to bug ya..."
or was it a tenner?
~
28 JUNE - 05 - UNFORGETTABLE
Dublin dusk; getting together, darkness imminent at the canal.
"OK edge.. (David Evans)..play the blues."
~
The Edge's sound; music, what "happens," call it what you will Larry and Adam
is "a preacher stealing hearts at a travelling show;" hinting of an apocolypse..now, in the air
at Phibsboro. Croke Park. Croker. 80,000. Monday outside the ground. A full house. Pride. "This song is not a rebel song,
this song is...the news today; I can't close my eyes and make it... New Years Day. Not one a dud. Totally
amazing; or was it, flat? Not happening? No, no it was the night love came to town, leapt around the stage in
crepe-lifts and transported them through a prism of love to Van Diemens land - where the streets have no name
and raised a silver lidded keyboard, in the snooker hall on Camden Street; where dolls hang out, sniffing my talent.
~
I forget her face; pale, refracting daylight through the candle we lit to commemorate the B52's, Vietnam, Ned
Kelly and Wham, or was it Wigan with Culture Club supporting? He does not keep loaves and fishes in a fridge near Killiney
Boy George does not go the Forty-Foot, New York, Red Rock. In Benidorm He is incognito, in shades and baseball cap
under the blood red sky of Alicante; at a water park, Bono John Lennon - Helter-Skelter - telling Bono go back to
the top of the slide Then you stop and you turn and you go for a ride Then you get to the bottom, then you.. see me again.
~
See? The Beatles
Bono and you too want me to love again. Hear September daylight, cool breeze at Sandycove. A dream to be the free man "who come in the name of.." Bono
Love. Touch the ground where JFK, his brother Bobby and Gaybo spoke "Mrs Byrne got diamond eyes.....what more in the name of.."
..JFK, mobbed from New Ross to Phoenix Park in '62. The Late Late live. Gaybo; in the ruck, squeezing to get near. Have you read
Gaybo's autobiography Marilyn Monroe? Read behind the lines or tossed off some to Clarke Gable, Ralph, Larry Lamb, Olivier Elton or
~
Lord John. In the Hyannis Port compound? Sixties. Bee Gees, Massachusetts, Miles Davis and John Coltrane at the Mixer. Down
to the marina in shorts and a kagool. Picnics, on the beach. Swim. Ball games; sandwiches, find unrehearsable, love
"All I want is you,"
and two cans of gargle?
~
Or was it ten, that night at Croker by the canal Gloria. Beautiful Day. One. The one that goes on and on. The White Album
Abbey Road. Regents Park. Zoo TV. Tourists take pictures of the zebra crossing. It's pissing down; Shaune Ryder's no smack.
Sir Bob - "One" is on the radio, sing
"I don't like Mondays"
~
Bono.
gives and is as all should be. Ogma the good god is the one you want to be
Peace upon you too; balance of grain containing galaxies of void and light, guide me to the music of what happens, please be good.
Happy Monday's, here to happen. Bono
~
Sir
~
my servant awaiting a cipher to number for a modest sum, "did you
come here for forgiveness; did you come to raise the dead, did you come here to play Jesus to the lepers in your head"
and plagiarise? Poesy's Page - arise Larry; Bono, Adam, the Edge and please.
You too?
~
or is it U2?
I know
~
Edge is not the Bono and Bono not the Edge. Adam is not Larry or he Adam Ant. Larry made it happen. He put the note up; I accept Mullen is
nothing without me, or me him. Only voice, gifted lyrics, Ogma's word
Thank you very much for your kindness. I am having trouble with blogger. I posted stuff up last week on my other blo which is yet to appear. It stays on the dashboard but not on the blog itself. It has just happened here. I got to post the poem above, which appeared, and when I tried to edit it it does not load up.
levitate the missing purse resuscitate the missing person matriculate to buildings left conceptual be worthy of a badge be adaged in your spare adagio walk silk while washing stillness berate the predator and predatory forces be true though rueful emanate from center stage hold center field in mind
The perennial search for pulse, at the bonepile, in the boneyard or when Spring fleshed green the fields ever spread for walking--have we softened,
to leave them to grow untrodden, tiring entirely of tiredness that we succumbing to rest may have lost a glow once occurred in the marrow.
No. There is no loss that does not get, nor have we ceased our looking, or lost at all. Our company with one another less than our mythology of friendship
of brotherhood carried now as one would childhood, or, later, youth and young life. Nonetheless, you are my friend and I will always need water from the well of that sense,
beyond circumstance, or distance, or living in the same town without a word for months! There are many around, Jim, but few within. Come any Siberia, the bones remain integral.
Your music, or speech, or loves, your learning and going away, there is situation inside you for all there's to do. The "grand expansion" is a turn of the head, to see friends there, me among
in clouds or mire or the same trite continuation of life. There is ever a color to find in the wood that found increases the variegation of the eye. Again, as ever, forever, do not stop the looking.
stirred apples and the cinnamon effects of lighthouse view refract perhaps the aging as one motions to her lifeline and says speech will always house this flannel nest
strangled bodies of concrete are moaning cold tonight it's true there are no beds big enough to lay my lines for train tracks are solitary and depressing and sleep is elsewhere collapsed between literate thighs
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