Kiss Curl

Kiss Curl .

I love the way the wind

plays with my hair

when I whisk along the road

windows wound down

twirls my comb-over

into a kiss curl

like Bill Hayley in the fifties.

Rock around the clock, baby.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Looking for Something Psychedelic

something psychedelic

I went looking for the dark side of the moon ’cause Dino told me it was good. If you can’t think of the name, think Pink Floyd, he said but I didn’t need to do that. I went to all the outlets in my area, but none had it: they thought I was having them on. So I drove to Dan Murphy’s ’cause they have everything. I looked for something psychedelic but there was nothing. Finally an attendant found it. It had some dumb ass, low key label. I took it home. I did not guzzle. I sipped. I savoured. Then something happened ….

  • pic courtesy of pinterest

Something in the Air

I don’t like the look of them

these runaways

the way they huddle darkly

in alleys,

in vacant lots amongst

the runtish grass

with their hangdog faces

and surly looks

they’re up to something

but if you edge closer to eavesdrop

they clam up

look at you with bloodshot

insolent eyes

what have they been drinking

smoking?

perhaps they are planning

a revolution

against their colonial masters

the supermarkets.

Credenza

My parents partied to Mario Lanza.

His records littered the credenza

before ending up on the turntable.

[ it was the era of Clark Gable].

and everyone would their glasses clink

when Mario sang ‘Drink Drink Drink’

He had a big voice and big loves,

and the habits of a tiger cub,

‘impossible’, it was said, to housebreak.

He died too young at thirty eight.

Way way back in ’59.

Then along came Elvis. He was mine !

  • pic courtesy of Wikipedia

The Pink Comb

I have a pink comb

in my back pocket.

My one concession to pink.

Still, I was amazed

to read

in an article on Harris Reed,

the 25 year old designer,

that in the 18th century, pink

was stylish for men and women

as was lace,

a marker not of effeminacy

but of affluence & taste.

Tastes change.

Although I am not rabidly masculine,

I like manly cuts and colours

Still I;m fond of my pink comb.

O, and I like Kylie too.

Went Down to Nazareth

 

 
Went down to Nazareth, back from Bethlehem
to see my old mate Jesus out among his friends
No one had died
was crucified,
they were all good family men
Jesus performed his miracles
for charity now and then.
 
* with a nod to Robbie Robertson

On Covers

This song comes on the radio.

It’s one I know but they’ve done something to it

it’s softer, whiter, drained of passion and angst, its southern origins.

It’s a cover of Lodi, the Creedence song.

They’re singing the lyrics but they’re not singing the song.

The chunky guitars are gone and it has a clarinet and acoustic guitar backing..

Come on.

There are good covers.

Think Ry Cooder’s cover of Elvis’s ‘Little Sister’,

the Soup Dragons cover of the Stones’ ‘I’m Free’

Amy Winehouse’s cover of the Zutons ‘Valerie’

but this cover’s a travesty.

Look what they’ve done to my song, mama.

Why would anyone bother?

This guy’s stuck in Lodi. He’s desperate but he’s given up.

He’s drained. It’s like the Eagles’ ‘Hotel California’,

Billy Joel’s Piano Man but you wouldn’t know it

hearing this pallid, weasel kneed version.

I know I shouldn’t get worked up. Hey, it’s only a song

but I’ve loved songs all my life; it’s my passion, more than poetry

but Hey! a good song is poetry

so I’m playing Creedence’s ‘Lodi’ to get me out of this funk.





*what are some of your favourite covers?

pic courtesy of Pinterest

On the Shortest Day

On the shortest day

I take the longest run

between one jetty and the next

and back again

rest myself against the rump

of a dune

listen to the sea shanties of the waves

while a mermaid appears, rises above the waves

swinging her wild, wild hair

in the sun-drenched breeze

until spotting me she coyly slips

beneath the water.

The jetty wades a little deeper into the sea

to catch a glimpse.

On the shortest day I tell

the tallest tales.

His Arms Were a Graphic Novel

It wasn’t the person from Porlock; it was my aunt

Who got on the bus, brought my poem to an end.

My notebook slumped on my lap as she told me

The long sad story of a friend.





When she got off I had my chance but this young bloke

Sat next to me, iPod blaring, hair swooped back.

It was the White Stripes live from Splendour.

How could I not listen ? It was Meg and Jack.





But then a cross-eyed biker got on, hair in a rat’s tail,

Skin graffitied with tatts. How could I not look?

His arms a graphic novel. Then a woman got on

Shouting into her mobile, angry as ‘The Angry Book’.





The sad sack on the other end was out for the count.

Luckily Coleridge didn’t board this bus

while he was dreaming ‘Kubla Khan’. He wouldn’t

have written a word. The poem would be dust.





  • picture courtesy of Pinterest by TheTatt

Evie

People walking up and down ,

walking off their sore heads from the night before,

mothers with their daughters, mothers with no one,

people locked on their mobiles,

missing the jaunty waves,

the graffiti of gull talk

and that gorgeous fluffy white spitz from McLaren Vale walking his owner

what’s his name? I ask.

Her, he corrects me. Evie.

Ahh I say after the song.

That’s right, he says. Evie, Parts 1,2 and 3.

And we give each other the thumbs up —

not many people know that —

& could start reminiscing when we saw Little Stevie & the Easybeats

but Evie is keen to get moving

just like Little Stevie who couldn’t keep still;

And above us, because

there’s a strong breeze,

there’s wind surfers flying around

like a dazzle of butterflies,