Seventies sounds slide from
wet speakers under tarpaulin,
revealing our average age.
Whilst pretty youth hangs out,
brushed ordinary by inclemency,
LED fairies wrap happily
around huge balloons,
wafting in idle dance,
and gauze obscures a newborn
suckling, haunted by a nipple.
As adversely politiced pairs
set the drunk planet keeling,
I’ll take my leave, followed by
more grizzled absconders,
yearning decaf with our cake.
If every day I do my best
before I lay my head to rest
and try to lend a helping hand
though help may sift like softest sand
If every day I only say
the words I mean, not by the way
and take to heart, not bow to head
the feelings meant, not what is said
If every day when I reflect
with honesty, in retrospect,
I’ll find the seed of hope we sew
when we allow our love to show.
Eight dancing bellies, backs, and sixteen buttocks, bending and brushing, bringing things, changing ranges, shifting gears, shunting and travelling, challenging,
shoving, recovering, dividing and doubling, demanding and declining.
by one hundred and ninety two willing eyes placed in four parallel lines on either side of a smooth studio space.
Then, fifty completed feedback forms laid out to be sifted, scrutinised, analysed, and summarised, whilst
the twenty steel toes of nimble fingered technicians, practitioners, choreographers, crew and costumier
chew over, chill, enjoying the moment, swapping spectacles.
Before entering the book,
Lying in the almost dark,
I thought about the comfort
Of an ordinary life,
But, all things considered:
The page wrapped smooth
About me. I remember excitment,
and a sense of belonging
in that desperate landscape
of unfamilar words, lit only
by a spark from an inward torch.
My idle hours are spent
On any project that
Doesn’t use too much
Energy, or blow what
Little life I have
In evening solitude.
Now I am whole again,
Growing is an option.
Clay men feel ambiguous,
Liking to bathe, but
Anticipating their own meltdown,
You see, I am one of them.
Remember days at number 3
when we had time to sit? And see
the raindrops coursing down the pane
and race them, giving ours a name?
Remember when the storm would light
the chintzy curtains in the night
and we would huddle in our bed?
Remember all the things we said?
and how we giggled endlessly,
when we were young, at number 3?
When it floats your boat of straw
for a few short minutes
to kill someone’s wellbeing
with sharp wit.
What a sad waste of happiness
and poor use of an able brain
So soon sunk.
try to take a balanced view of life
for the sake of my health and equanimity.
A documentary film about
Phillipe Petit, who high wired
between New York Twin Towers
on 7th August 1974
taught me that sickening fear,
rather than external physical danger,
is the greater killer.
Play to your own boom whacker basic beat
which may or may not syncopate:
if (drum roll) by happy chance
your cymbalic clash
rewards you with a thrilling
gong, beguine together for
some common time.
But mark my bones, ‘ you skip a beat,
and hit the snare, your ghost note floating on,
revise your phrasing, note your pulse
adjust your seat,
long may you sustain your mighty solo song.