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Dai's Meaningless Miscellany
(assorted verses, culled from 25 or more years of scribbling, 1986-2011) (starting to collect, 10/11/11)
All things come to he who waits, as some thick prat once said But before you rush in blindly where the angels fear to tread Just pause a while and ask yourself, which option would be worse: A psychiatric patience or a psycopathic nurse? You never know quite where you stand, no exes mark the spot Her heart is stone, her blood runs cold, but the rest of her is hot. You're on a roller coaster with no brakes and no reverse You lose your heart, you'll lose your mind to a psycopathic nurse Your body’s on the table, your emotions on the rack; She takes your pulse and raises it but never gives it back... A thousand mocking Cupids pronounce the dreadful curse: You're banged up in a padded hell with a psycopathic nurse Oh, she can make the patient but not disturb the bed She treats all of your senses and discharges you half dead. As you climb aboard the night bus, it's a double-decker hearse May you ever rest in pieces with your psycopathic nurse (c1986, inspired by John Cooper Clarke, completed 2011, not based on any real person) Don't touch me: this is a day For pulling teeth; for films; for cummerbunds: Sesquicentennials and a pack of cards. What did Paul get you? Something nice? My paramour, my little queen? I go to see her soon, depart by train. Baisaient la Nymphe indeed, mon cher ami. Dancing, wine, a river of cassis ... By the way — I found this key; I think it's yours; it bears a little tag: In faded ink it reads 'Parade Sauvage' — Tried it in all my locks — it doesn't fit. 20/10/2004 – my 52nd, Rimbaud’s 150th Earth colours: browns and greys; a road in snow, a blasted, withered tree beneath a clear but chilly sky. An empty room: a candle flame, lace curtains, lifted by the breeze, wafting through an open window. An isolated farmhouse or a barn, alone upon the hilltop, deserted in the prairie. Presence in absence, places haunted by the spirits of the living. 28/2/2006 I've said it before and I'll say it again In Wilde's immortal phrase ~ "All Bad Poetry Is Sincere" Whatever anyone says Sincerity is important ~ As Walter Cronkite said Indeed, it's the key to everything "Fake that and you've got it made" Emotion and suffering on their own Will never write readable verse If you're in too close to whereof you write It just gets worse and worse Good poems and self-indulgence Cannot go hand in hand Technique must always lead the way To the poet's promised land OK, my verse is insincere It's also pretty shite But it’s late and I’m tired and you don’t really care, So I'm off to bed ~ Goodnight. (2006 ~ on an online message board for bad poets see also Struck Regularly in Bathetic Phallacies) I bought a dead man's easel From his daughter down in Wales — I guess he turned to painting When his health began to fail, So they bought him paints and palette; Some 'how-to' books on art And a dinky table easel So that he could make a start "Chin up, old man," they maybe said, When things started getting rough; "It's good to have an interest "To take your mind off — stuff." But the palette knew no colours; The books remained unread; With the stand still in its packing, The man lay cold and dead How soon after did poor Katie Gather up that sombre stash, To sell it off on E-bay — Clear it out and raise some cash? I looked her up on Facebook — Pretty, not yet twenty three — Thinking, I may well be older Than her father lived to be. While I sit alone and long for death, Will the easel call to mind How sad that would-be artist was To leave his life behind? Now I try to paint your portrait In Magritte's surrealish style: The rose you hold before your face Conceals your gamine smile As I try to fix your beauty I'm aware that life is frail — I use a dead man's easel And his daughter mourns in Wales (2008) The violence here upon the streets And that 'our boys' deal out Are sides of the same sad tarnished coin Of that I've little doubt. Flipping burgers or fighting wars For land or gas or oil Go out and fight on Lothian Road Or on some foreign soil The dim and thuggish always are, By those with power and gold, Used as fodder and used as brawn ~ Ever the old same old Don't call this action 'sacrifice' Or think your leader cares ~ The price of pain and bloodshed weighed In Haliburton shares Turn round and see your enemy Retrain your guns and knives On Starbucks, Macs and Burger Kings And help reclaim your lives! (2008) From now on, they will always be with me: the small black dots, dancing, and the aurora snake, describing lazy arcs in my right eye vision. With time they may fade from view: yet always remain there, floating in the vitreous humour (that name that made us schoolboys giggle*), edited out by a cunning brain. But always ready to return, in times of stress or weariness, to bring to mind the night you brought plasters and balm to the Penguin Café. envoi * In Spain I broke my humerus. I am plagued by Fate’s bad puns. (February 2011) Please don't go out of doors: or, if you do, don't go too far away. And wrap up warm; I could not bear to think that you might catch a cold or come to harm. It's tough out there. Don't sit at home alone. I hate the thought of you being sad or even slightly bored. Go out and have some fun. I'd be distraught to hear that you were down for just a day when so much love is yours (12 10 2011) Oh, take that name that they have given you. Now take that name and put it in its box, its box that they have given you, then take that box that holds that name, that name that they have given you, and put it on that shelf, that shelf that they have designated, that they have designated for that box, that box that they have given you, to hold that name, that name that now lies hidden in that box, that box that they have given you, upon that shelf that they have designated to store, away from view and safe from interference, that name that they have given you. (12 10 2011) Up on the stage the Pasty-Faced Wasters, a six-piece outfit, post-rock, neo-proto-punk, are setting up. No two sets the same, rarely even planned out in advance, the audience kept safely in the dark. They like it that way The won't play Glastonbury or Later with Jools. (10 2011) I’m sending my shit to Dundee Six small samples, sealed under sticky flaps in a secure envelope. A sign that the State, in Scotland, cares; a reminder of the risks that come with approaching senesence. Two years ago I did the same, all but certain something, after two years’ pain, festered somewhere in my gut; a sign that my life, this hollow farce of loneliness, might soon be over. Maybe this time … (7 11 2011) golden graced oh no wrought finely from within bought finally with in later years not graceless gold — on — go told facelessly to show fought gamely but in vain caught mainly dreams in shame and tears your face a mess — we know old base but so short-lived a life apart taught lovers' lessons part greater fears from baser cold — no show (10 11 2011) |