needs must
the neighbourhood corner
where I usually get my transport
and emergency coffee
and haircuts (which reminds me)
has this morning become a
marketplace (needs must)
greengrocers and butchers
have parked in the street
all through the junction
and some have gathered just because
there’s something to look at
word has spread fast and
old scratchy music is already playing
as those who buy are doing their choosing
notice that we have learned to
chat through masks and
smile with our eyes
(needs must)
like a freshly blooming flowerbed
the bright colours and the bustle
come to an unlikely spot
ashes from the archive
searching the archive
for new old sounds
following leads and
looking under rocks
thus approaching a long untouched stone
unsure what it covers
when the music takes me by the hand
and says:
don’t be scared
it was a long time ago
you know the scars are healed
you did the work
sure enough
but stealthily
an afternoon creeps through old soundtracks
anticipating words and phrases
from back in the driving days
long locked up
hidden inside are the fruits
of my raking through the ashes
even while I was building a new fire
itself long ashes now
we spend so much time driving
and singing along
some bits are bound to stick
and there are always some that taste of ashes
we spend so much of our youth
hard at work figuring things out
and so much of our post youth
justifying how we got here
it’s good that we find friends
who we will never meet
who unknowingly help reflect our angst
back between their lines
and never get cross when they get put back in the drawer
or abandoned under stones
dry spell
“The first ten million years were the worst,” said Marvin, “and the second ten million years, they were the worst too. The third ten million years I didn’t enjoy at all. After that I went into a bit of a decline.”
― Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
something of a dry spell
the imagery is still
and will not be bounced
against anything,
least of all the walls
the walls that absorb
our rising contempt
through no fault of their own
the absurdity of dressing for coffee
due to the absence of gas
while taking the long term view
or at least trying to
strategy fatigue
moderation fatigue
self absorption fatigue
it’s enough to make you want to
argue on the internet
think of that
I shall make up my mind
I shall make up my mind
foundation for my fundamentals
pluck my ethics and redraw them perfectly
a little lipstick on my logic
mascara on my amygdala
rouge for my rationality
blush for my anxiety
using subtle colours for complexities
and broad strokes for simplifications
shadows and lines for my imagination
bronzer for my boldness
lotions and creams for my ego
beauty soap for my conscience
and so I shall make up my mind
Saturday
if you tell me it’s Saturday
I might not believe you
but I’ll have nothing to refute you with,
no place to stand and to point at the shape of the sky
and insist that it’s Tuesday
or St Steven’s Day
the sun has risen
and I assume it will set
although certainties are
thin on the ground these days
change has been driven underground
for the moment
and is only showing up in accumulations
in times of slumber or uproar
I flee to the familiar
if I had Chandler
I would be reading Chandler
celluloid versions must suffice
slowly adapting to
drastic shift in my hours of business
no more nights, only days
early to bed early to rise
makes Jack a dull boy
so a little inconvenience
keeps things interesting
rationing the good coffee
each morning wondering
when I can replenish the stash;
rationing the beer and vodka
for soon it will perish
and what an experiment that will be
in the meantime
there’s work to do,
so I’ll work
until I don’t feel like it anymore
and go check up on what Philip Marlowe
is getting up to
I’m awake anyway and I still have coffee and
it’s Saturday, after all
take away
a stranger new year
than even the last
we wish each other’s families
health and happiness
and spin slowly and hopefully
in our own circles
smaller and smaller
a walk down the gaptoothed
naked emaciated street
bejewelled with signs saying: take away
staff keep vigil outside
just like they always did
but now there is nothing to see
and no one to watch
the inn and saloon is locked off
but the tape used to keep us out
says high voltage cable below
a man I knew
chose this moment to: take away
we cannot gather
and drink to him
gathering will have to wait
but we try our electronic best
and share shards of our impulses
into the webiverse
these moments of quiet
the raising of solitary glasses
and the ceiling’s responses
will have to suffice
Limitations
a poet
built for wistfulness
were I a novelist
my arcs would be more fully realised
and the scenes would hold more drama
and my character would be finer drawn
but I’m a poet
built for wistfulness and longing
were I a screenwriter
my wisecracks and epigrams
would be pithy and salty
my vistas would be wider
and my themes clearer
but I’m a poet
built for wistfulness and longing
and patience
were I a memoirist
my anecdotes would sizzle and sparkle
and my history would be more complex and vital
but I’m a poet
built for wistfulness and longing
and patience and questions
were I a journalist
my stories would seethe
with adventure and daring
and bristle with detail
but I’m a poet
built for wistfulness and longing
and patience and questions
and witness
the beat goes on
my generation it seems has much nomaded
across place and time
we seem to have moved farther and wider
seeking our spot
before and since
and characters from previous episodes
show up unbidden in the thoughtscape;
the collective memory
massively fragmented
in the absence of any collective
but then there is the curse of each generation:
for sure it was always thus
we sit with handfuls of untidied ends –
we don’t know the further destiny of
the minor characters who passed through our lives
here or there or the many wherevers
and sometimes not even the intergalactic interwebs can find them
should we find overextended moments to indulge in such
and it’s not like we want to say hi
we just want to take a peep through historic clouds
and see how happy or otherwise they appear
through warm, unshuttered windows
that we can return to our own shutters
and run them once again through the thoughtscape
and let the stories tell themselves
so we beat on, boats against the current,
borne back ceaselessly into the past
a nod of thanks
a nod of thanks
to our younger selves
who got us here
somehow
their decisions led the way
so that we can sit here and trace the contours
of the maps that they could not see
and who picked up some of the tools
that fell in their path
and abandoned others
like us
they stood on the cliff edge
every day
held their breath and closed their eyes and
jumped
a nod of thanks
to our younger selves
who got us here
somehow
making the calls
and choosing the timing
as best they could
so that now we can sit here
and see the trajectory of the bullets that were dodged
and that were not
and intermittently forgive our younger selves
for rushes of youthful blood to various
anatomies
a nod of thanks
to our younger selves
who got us here
somehow
who bravely struggled
from time to time
and also cravenly hid
when it was felt necessary
because the relationship between discretion and valour
is hard-learned
now we think we know
why we didn’t pick up the phone
and why we turned left
and why we opened the door
but our sight is only
hind
a nod of thanks
to our younger selves
who got us here
somehow
and a pat on the back
to ourselves
because we kid ourselves
we’ve got it figured out
now
Shutdown cubism with Florence Nightgale
