Motel Blues

False cowboys take up motel rooms.

You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases

Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”

And you want to wave goodbye

To the ugly landscape. The person at reception

Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool

But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.

 

A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light

Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.

You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had

When he was seven and his father came home early.

 

Motel rooms scream secrets

But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,

The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207

Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,

The orange heat of the dawn sun

Coming through the blinds in the desert morn

Is as welcoming as any waterfall.

Advertisements

Average Day

Propulsion, speed, Opera

Bowling down the road in sleepless coattails

And the same gloves you slept in –

What a gorilla, devoid of inspiration

Wallowing in howling sin, desperate as a star

Ready to supernova. Arrested for jaywalking

And screaming at the police for offences

Mismanaged. Work in the morning,

Sad wailing musical pipe dream romance –

Stale coffee. Dreams written as tattoos.

Every eye is on you like Apollo: a crumbling obelisk

Cursing to the dirt, asking the earth

“Why aren’t I rich yet?” – Some kind of prayer.

Conflicted

I’m waiting for fate to hand me what I want

Because to go out and grab it shakes me to grey

And I retreat. I want to wake early, before the world;

Get the bus, work. I want to write the feeling

Of changing seasons, that which excites

And fills the air with sweet leaves falling.

I want to know the names of streets

And follow them like a natural dance

Not having to look forward in a white shirt and tie.

And I want to rock and roll – but to write is to

Be safe. And that’s easier.

Sunday Afternoon

On this afternoon the city exhaled and

Allowed the blue to linger far beyond the

Usual yellowing of the deep night. There were

Streams of people all passing me by, going

In the opposite direction like the pale wisps

Of clouds that swam above me. I walked like a

Dance, haphazard and unbound and people

Had already started getting drunk. Some complained,

Some were Dickensian in cold hotel doorways –

Women like swans with their heads bowed

Trying to get from A to B. All this in artifice

And I hear the unrestrained hum of evening life

Being lived perfectly by so many.

This is not the Nouvelle Vague

You looked like you were about

To smoke until I remembered

You don’t but if you did you would

Look like Jean Seberg or Anna Karina

Or another French icon because

All the fashionable icons are French.

I’m not saying I’m Godard or Truffaut

But I’m definitely saying that I’m the artist.

Although, I don’t see an uprising sprouting

In Albert Square next to the library,

Even if it’s quasi Roman design sparks

Renaissance aspirations. Such revolutionaries

Would be quietly herded into the Costa nearby

Where they can watch the statues not move.

I got off track: the scene opens with a shot

Of the Eiffel Tower.

Motorway Poem

I was under no illusions as we escaped the city

Watching the night and lost in the wisps of live music.

I thought of the Jetstream of the 60’s dream

A concrete moment in 1967 that cracked by December

When flats grew cold and the hippies froze

Then the dream deferred leapt into the sordid 90’s

When cockroach parliamentarians were as drunk as Withnail

And I saw the final remnants of peace and love in

The cocaine afterglow of cool Britannia

With flags plastered on champagne skin

And close fitting ribcages. I snapped from my remembrances

And naïve theorizing as the motorway lights blinded me

And I grasped my knees in fear thinking

‘Oh god’ but father began to harmonize as I considered

The majesty and mechanics of Nick Drakes right hand

Whispering William Blake innocence in the haze of Jane in autumn.

No need for obsolete baroque impersonations

The fashions of a company bleed into the rebellion

Streaming through the veins of psychedelic teens

Who wear bellbottom jeans to compensate for lack of personality

Could I borrow something as simple as a cigarette?

A line of code or a coda in the delicate prayer of jazz?

Or can I weave words into days, hours into ribbons,

Dresses into snow. Sudden stops. Can’t see

The traffic cones five feet in front of me

Sudden burst, could cold thought

Be any cheaper in city brains?

False nihilism, dust on wooden floors

A disease tended to with ennui

And nobody stops to care.

From the Bar to the Bus Stop

Let us be merry my photogenic heart;

We’ll wander the sodden streets of Manchester

Like a starving rat.

We’ll stop at the train station at midnight

To watch the first train pull in

With a river of refugees from the fringes of the town.

Wastelands hold no joy on a Friday night.

Cut, Paste, references, images,

A split second of a dancing girl,

A snapshot of a painter colouring the sky,

A Gypsy playing the accordion,

Cut, Paste. A scent remembered, the violent exchange,

The moment one flash of love dies and reignites

Like a wishful child.

All this in an hour walk,

From the bar to the bus stop.