Sunday, September 03, 2006

Two Poems for Mr.Bodie

Both poems from up and coming collection,
'The Lost Art of Catching Trains'

URBANAL

We have already bought the t shirts
they say
‘God Wears burberry’
They will appeal to all demographics,
youth culture , womens institutes,
they will sell like hot cakes.
we will sell hot cakes too,
(they will sell like t-shirts.)

On the allotment someone
has pulled the head off a pigeon
it blinks once as its body attempts flight.
I don’t like this world much.
I throw up on Gary’s new combats,
he scrapes it off with a Bowie knife.
Named after the famous Byker Wall
frontiersman Bob Knife.

I once pissed on a homeless gadgey
when I was an anarchist whispers Kieron
But I was younger then and full of principles
Time is elastic and stretches to fit me in
like a cervix states Gregg
who says he is a film maker,
although he has never actually made a film
although he has now made a poem
(although this is open to dispute)
although is an overused word and works badly under repetition
although...........
Billy is an Ulsterman
his accent does not give him away
who wants to know why we would assume he was a protestant.

What part of Ireland do you come from?

The North!


Yes, but which part of the North?

Erm ....Limerick

Limerick’s in the South....I think

Yes well, it’s a long way from Tipperary

Actually, it’s just not!

we reckon he’s half Irish.
Half Irish and half wank.

Michael comes in and reminds me of a joke poem
that hardly anybody ever gets.it depends on a knowledge
of T.S.Eliot, Adam Faith and Inspector Jack Regan;
We call it Sweeney among the Budgerigars
‘Get your strides on Budgie, you’re nicked!
we laugh like pretentious drains.
I am explaining the joke to
a seventeen year old Darlington supporter
He looks at me with a blank expression
I look at him with an empty glass
neither of us takes the hint.

Amelia is a woman of many faces
I don’t like any of them.
She looks like a young Glenda Jackson
Her mother looks like an old Glenda Jackson..
Amelia you are the ghost of alienation,
false as alarms you wear
the hexagram of the 7/11
plucking dayglo strings and feathers,
and I, am Icarus with Daedalus envy.

The morning cracks under interrogation
the loaf I bought this morning smells of vinegar,
angels shoplift featherlite condoms from superdrug
wings hidden under coats borrowed from the
cursed and charmed and others of us who are truly alarmed

Captain Black is leaving for the last metro
I drink up and follow.
A drunk teenager mistakes me for Troy Tempest
as I make for the exit.
I didn’t think her generation would remember.

These are the days of indolence and expedience.

Daedalus Envy

We fall from grace so easily
Cut Price Angels
with our little fuck off wings
We count the cost too readily
of stuff that doesn't mean a thing.

We burn with anger too soon
Criticising others under a red nose Moon
We beg for forgiveness
When the drink is in full flow
We wait to go anywhere but here
when there is nowhere else or left to go

Love and all its ridiculous rules
we settle for the commonplace
When Ignorance is blistering the
smiles from off our faces.

Let's settle for anything and call it a dream
and keep our mouths wide shut
for our silent soulless screams.

I know what you are saying is the truth
because you wouldn't lie, would you?
I know how I feel don't I? and you
would never intrude , would you?

We push our bodies together
we pull our hearts apart
we end as we began, clueless in our art
and so wrapped up in ourselves
that we cannot see how clear
the answer is, somewhere not
too far away from here.

We fall from grace so easily
Wingless unhappy fucks
under the heel of the god that made us
or under the wheelbase of a truck.

I know what you are saying is the truth
because you wouldn't lie, would you?
I know how I feel don't I? and you
would never intrude , would you?

I know what you say is the truth
you wouldn't lie would you?
I know what I said was true
and you would never lie, did you?

2 comments:

paul bodie said...

two poems? for me? nice one!
cheers kev
enjoyed them both

kathleen kenny said...

Two poems for Mr Bodie.

A pig farmer on Woman's Hour was saying how much she loved pigs. How intelligent they were and full of character. How they adored bananas and how, when they ate strawberries they made her laugh, with their painted lips: funny, like children.
Later, in her kitchen, she and the presenter discussed sausages as they stuffed their gobs with pork.

I felt like the middle bit of the feature had been edited out.

Then I read these poems. Thank God, I thought - someone bold who knows what is real and funny and honest.

KK.