The Germs Exit My Body Through Various Pores and Washing Techniques
I rehearsed your script.
Your town's emptied itself of everything except people and electricity;
knowing this, I've a fighting chance against things less sentient than ghosts and myth,
your script's breathing underwater, sinks on dry land,
has a blind cinematographer,
people wear masks to hide faces they don't have;
I read your script backwards, it would be something Greek scholars
squeezed mathematics between,
intending to burn down a whorehouse
next to an unknown solar system
called Zachary,
in tribute to those silly things people used to do
naming dangerous events of nature
with Plebeian names. I read your script and turned a gun on myself
to learn there were no bullets in it
and the gun I was holding
was a feather covered in ink to atone
for the broken bones in your tongue;
there is nothing that resembles a script, a stage,
and you are a vainglorious bird of paradise
who mocked the beauty of the rook
I’ll Make a Movie Someday With Chazz Palminteri in the Starring Role
I'm the missing piece of artillery night time needs,
a hole in it for me to fill holding up a train maybe,
writing a song for the second and second last time
about my morning at the gallows 36 hours later -
the locomotive smell comes under radars at Killester,
an iron-horse kettle chuffing
industry's rampaging ribs;
an iron-horse changes faces
every century or so,
night-time never changes anything
but its alibis and its stooges.
The 4 pronged curry-house
plastic fork on the station platform
is bereft of its middle-two digits, it looks like the devil's horns,
dusk says nothing, night-time's shards of silver
shine on a need to know basis,
night breathes down from its visions
of things bent and dazed in shapes that
scripts turn to wastelands of silence,
a gust of nothingness lifts an obsolete election poster
of an obsolete being. He's taking a stand on behalf of his community,
wrong colours tainting the purest snow that fell and froze his immaculate conceptions,
life is oh so easy when the right component parts lock their fangs
on the scattered sandgrains of dreams,
I'll make a movie someday with Chazz Palminteri
playing the next guy who walks past and asks
what I'd do if I was a soldier fighting a nuclear war in another dimension,
probably nothing less than anything more I'd do
if I was sitting in a plaza in Cantabria.
Spaniards they say, can't make tea, for love nor for financial gains,
not being one to indulge in the leaf
I can't say I care too much
about tea or nuclear war,
I'm a conscientious objector
to every word in every song
I could never sing. Why should I do anything less than more of nothing?
i.m. Steve Cawte (1982 - 2024)
Van Morrison,
fireflies and warm red stones
spitting steam that curls making question marks
I'd give a handful of silver many of so many other answers for,
if it needed to ask. I don't need to ask.
Maybe a blues-swollen dusk
in a pocketful of April
asking how many liners I'd see clattering through here
has shaken liquor-cool wires,
leaving all these moments
flat on a curve of a song on the meanings of anything.
Van Morrison didn't have an instrumental tune until 1982, then by April-time
they'd seeped into the plains,
as freight-liners kneaded their lyrics
thoughtfully, on crackling eyes in patient Datsuns,
knuckle-high in Coca-Cola.
Carrer De Tarragona
was the last time my feet remembered something handed to me,
from a leaf that fell from a dream,
and as I was praying,
I learned how to understand
a melody in the lyrics of the gracious.
Simon looked at Jesus and did a brotherly thing,
even if he had to be prompted, a little -
oh, these liners trundling on the psalms of sorrow
miming a lyric to a lover,
a ritual of remembrance. Remember, be pretty and be a song loud as a flower
Someone left the taps running in the can,
it's a definitive political statement, whispers confirm,
none of the truckers sitting in the deckchairs at their rigs
are to blame, they've got pressures of their own,
war was between water and a boy smiling at the counter,
who started something he'd lost control of,
spitting on the flowers as he left, the last time he was lord of anything,
except dust and filthy stones
Soilse ar an Uisce : Cill Fhionntain
Féach :
Bogann uisce tine
ó sholas,
agus codlaíonn sé ina iarmhairtí boga.
Éist :
Scoilteann aigéan cosúil le foraois trí thine,
d'fhoghlaim ainmhithe a mhionnú, maithiúnas uisce -
is éard caint ná h-áit dánta a ritheann i rúndiamhra an ghainimh
Geoff FM Playing Soul Music From Menton, Côte d'Azur
I gather stones for this buttermilk moon
which splatters light
in a tobacco whirlpool
until a guy two stories below
moves in to read a tarot death sentence on his childhood sweetheart.
The moon sees this and becomes a dandelion
pressing its petals on a mystery
my window learns at dusk.
In my brain is a tongue of his cold confession,
waiting to advance,
though this time I have not maimed him : I empty his breasts of his petroleum,
his scrotum of a bullet.
Standing by my radio
I await the signals of Detroit, Memphis, Chicago,
I obey the mellow dreams of factory-worker kids,
I give away the darkness to holes in the ground thirsty to be saviours
At Bellies Brae : Kirriemuir, Scotland
Bronze statue by John McKenna
Bronze, steel, furious flesh and hacked to its senses bone -
none are relevant, nor a throwaway
inside the beating hearts of wayward atoms,
rock n' roll - impossible to kill;
try it - by sniper,
by war,
by strychnine in a wee dram of everything post-war summertime
posted on a thistle's powerchords,
solid rock n' roll on a wild and
Bonny road - a rock no roll could kill, 1946 vintage - priceless
“Sitting in my Cadillac/Listening to my radio/Suzy baby get on in/Tell me where she want to go”
Downpayment Blues 1978
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