Crackles to Life

Under years of dust, at the back of the garage,

next to the old wardrobe that now holds garden tools,

on top of cardboard boxes packed full of things that are

no longer useful but too good to throw away,

rests the old record player.

 

I pull it from the mess of bits of bicycles & old picnic baskets,

peel a record from its musty sleeve

& it crackles back to life sending out forgotten analogue signals,

cutting through time at 33 RPM.

 

Now I’m talking ‘bout my generation[i],

Carnabetian[ii] dreams & satanic sympathies.

Poet punk psychedelic stereophonic shamen

carry me back to days of innocence & ignorant abandon.

The songs have remained the same[iii], but the years have moved on,

the doors may not be cleansed but the possibilities are still infinite.

 

So the scientifically precise mp3 player bloated with all its bits of data

can wait until I’m back in my car driving to work.

 

For now, I sit in the back of the garage,

in the chair we had in the living room before the one we have now,

I sneak a cigarette so the kids don’t catch me,

drop the needle, spin the black circle[iv]

& float back to a life that has been stored,

no longer useful but too good to throw away.

 


[i] Towshend, Peter. I’m talking ‘bout my generation. “My Generation”. My Generation. Record. Brunswick 05944. 1965.

[ii] Davies, Ray. Carnabetian. “Dedicated Follower of Fashion”. Single. Record. Pye 7N 17064. 1966.

[iii] Page, Jimmy & Plant, Robert. The songs have remained the same. “The Song Remains the Same”. Houses of the Holy. Record. Atlantic. 1973.

[iv] Vedder, Eddie. Spin the black circle. “Spin the Black Circle”, Vitalogy, Record, CD, Epic, 1994


Published in The Interpreter’s House Issue 63 (October, 2016)

Published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books (December, 2017)

 

Re:moving

I’m shifting the furniture of my mind,

breaking the bed that offers no respite,

getting rid of the mouldy couch the god sleeps on,

I’m throwing the tellie that’s stuck on reruns.

 

&  tonight, when the neighbours are within themselves,

I’ll set fire to all the dusty bookshelves.

 

Soon I’ll be left with just

white walls & bleached tiles.

            Like a vacant womb, a tabula rasa.

 


First published as Removal in Windmills, Issue 8, November 2011

pill popping

the dr. prescribes the latest pills

– one in the morning

– one at night

good for the heart

           age deflates

the balloon of youth

& immortality

 

I used to take my pills

from bathroom doctors,

prescriptions for

psychedelic meditation,

but now the doc says –

you’ve mapped the road

of excess, now

I pronounce you

heaven & hell,

you may kiss the ride,

the white rabbit done died.

 

now the CT map says you are here

blood thinners & α-blockers,

taken with a glass of water

           & a grain of salt.


Published in Rabbit Poetry Journal, Issue 4, May 2012

Make Love, Not Warhol

time-subject-film-light

Inspired by Ric Burns’ Andy Warhol: A Documentary Film.

 

The phonies are taking over,

the Jesus t-shirts

& ketchup stains.

 

Do you want me to tell you

who Andy was?

A mirror holder?

 

You move to the edge

& declare it the centre.

But now we throw hammers

at our reflections,

shattering silver thoughts.

 

Now the centre has been

cemented & secured –

trapped in a kaleidoscope

of commercial migraines,

the neon swirling like

an acid breast milk shake.

 

I’d film you sleeping

but that is now just

life / work / everyday.

 

If we slow 24 to 16

frames per second and

take time to

see like a child?

 

Do you remember when

movies used to amaze?

*time – subject – film – light*

 


Published in Rabbit Poetry Journal, Issue 4, May 2012