13 November 2008

Futurism

I include this, my favourite poem and I think my best, with a picture drawn by the prodigiously talented Claudia Massie, whose website ought to be looked at and can be here: http://www.claudiamassie.com/. The picture is taken from a series of chapters I wrote and she illustrated about a drunken and sexually promiscuous detective called Quinsley, the Booze-Cruise detective, who I dreamed up in my booze-cruising days in Madrid. Hardly autobiographical, I hasten to add. Although quite. The poem, however, is a mad song about the end of the world.


There´s a bed, an alarm clock and a line of
Uncounted sheep waiting to eke me out of this dogme
Dream I keep having, but each time I doze off to
Action! I´m Lars von Try-hard directing my past lives -
Ugly heads rear, a hydra´s memory bank
Muddled with washed-out faces and words
Blurring the Icelandic soundtrack that tick-tocks in tongues
With me reflected in the camera lens. The rooks, overused
Set pieces from some Streep bird-woman epic,
Shift and bustle heavily and scowl, cowls and wings sticking
My Oscar-worn face like butter to the dream. I´m
Stuck in strips and run criss-cross over
The set, lines on a hangar floor with Nicole
Barking up from the grid, the dogme dog that lost
Her cue. (Off-set she´s no less off world, woof after
Method woof in her caravan while I switch
The late night channels to Cruise control). If like me
You´ve been living in a box for the past few years – not
That "out of the box" fandango that preaches bungee-jumping,
Bongs and brave new worlds – then tomb raiders and
Movie stars are still God and I´m walking
A never-never path slung together
By mountains, spit and trouble. Look me up under
Dream-weaver to the stars, Google-heads, I can afford to
Delicately duplicate verse, line after line, dropping geek-by-
Night mysticism and lit by top of the range lamplight.
You can watch me every time I make a mistake and
Continue dying, one more talking head
Nodding to the tumble and fall of the universe.

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