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
Kiss Curl
music
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
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,
John Malone 