Taxi To The Dinosaurs
What is it that sets the storms in motion, how taut is the wire, even before it is stepped upon. And how effective is the writing, in bringing the rocket ship back to earth, of pulling one out of the stormy seas, onto the more soft and submissive sands.
I ask you this as a way of asking myself. What is it about confusion that one finds it so alluring; and for how long to be confused, how long before the confused soul sees, or appreciates the blue skies of light relief.
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| Image courtesy of Stephen Leonardi on Unsplash |
So once more it is back to reaching for refinement, as opposed to building the new. Yet again it is the time for cut and paste, as opposed to shutting up with haste.
How many places to discover or rediscover, how many poets on mountain ledges to accompany, or to be inspired by. There it is then; more questions than answers, more wonderment at the wonder of others.
Last night's film was about Keith Richards. And yes, the question is: how the fuck did he do it!
There must be a poem and here it is:
Abreast The Iron Radiator
I lay there sideways
Frying inside, lying on the floor
You were there
Lying somewhere, beyond the wall
Candles in the window
Silk, silk sheets, sunken satin bed
We lay apart, together yet miles away
You lie next door
Maybe that is all
All you ever wanted
To sleep alone, sleep for sure
Beyond those crazy midnight calls
Then the curse moved in with the treasure
Was it alcohol
Or was it rock and roll
Or was it just, just for sexual pleasure
In that museum place
A shelter, a rest
Away from London’s pouring roaring rain
Alongside the dinosaur
Abreast the iron radiator
You fondled my balls
My fondled balls
Were put to your test
Before long we were lovers
Restaurant tables
Vomiting at the seashore
Caught up completely
We were little mother-fuckers
Now it’s over, it’s gone, it’s over
Our stations are cold
Our dreamscapes we’ve strolled
We’ve created bronze from gold
Yet still the physical goes on
Last rites
Even after it’s all over now
