UNTIL HE FELL OFF

Thanks must go again to the Secret Poets for helping with this post's poem. You can read the earlier version here. 

CHOCOLATE CIGARETTES

We’d buy them at Parrs on the way to the matinee.

One of us would open a packet

and offer them round just like proper ciggies,

pretend to smoke until the end got too soggy

then peel the paper away reveal cylinders

of cheap chocolate pocked with holes.

Camel, Chesterfield, Lucky Strike.

A double whammy indoctrination

the normalisation of a lethal addiction

plus the superiority of American culture.

Well, I mean, that’s Elvis up there on the screen

riding the wall of death until he fell off,

one hot August night in 1977.

As you can see the poem has lost all the first verse [save for one line] and gained a title. There was some discussion as to whether I needed to include candy cigarettes as the focus of the poem was the chocolate variety. I think it is tighter now. Oh the joys of constructive feedback from people you respect. 

Here's Anna Ternheim live. 

Until next time. 

IMPOSSIBLE HEELS

 The other week I spent so time in Wales, near Swansea. On the Saturday morning I went for a stroll around the town, where the events in this poem happened, just as it says.

INTERSECTION

the sun is in my eyes

but the rain falls

it’s one of those days

a winter angled sun that blinds

so the wedding party

appear to materialise

out of the glare

in small groups

dressed to the nines

coats held over hairdos

impossible heels that

click click click towards you

I should not be surprised

the bells have made announcements

since I arrived

and here

on the cracked pavement

our lives intersect

and just like that

diverge again

Yes, it was raining when the sun was shining, it's been a rather wet winter. It was not long after the winter solstice and the sun was as low as it ever gets. Four or five groups of smartly dressed people did appear in front of me as I walked down a main street. 

As to the poem. I think it works. This one has been in the drawer for a while and so I think I have managed to fix the flaws. The layout may need revising. Not sure about that yet.

There's an old album by Bronco called Ace of Sunlight. I think it's worth playing a few tunes off that.

Until next time.

IT WAS NOT THE 70s

Here is a poem I began to write in a supermarket car park. I'd just parked and the idea was insistent. I hope I have met it's expectations.

I found myself in Lisbon

thinking about the Liverpool Stadium

because sun faded in a small shop window

was a well worn copy of Barclay James Harvest Live

it was not the 70s

I was not wearing flares

my hair was not half way down my back

no

it was grey

it was short

and I was old

reflecting on how such moments

take you to places

you didn’t know you remembered

The Liverpool Stadium was an old boxing arena that was used in the 1970s by rock bands. Barclay James Harvest were a prog rock band who've been mentioned on this blog before. The gig I went to was 31.8.74. I have to say I still have no recollection of Rare Bird the support band. As I remember it was a good concert, although my fondest gig of theirs was Sheffield in 1975 [8th November- the internet is amazing at times].

As to the poem, it is a work in progress. It certainly isn't finished yet. I'll leave you with a live Mockingbird. 

Until next time. 

RIDING THE WALL OF DEATH

I don't know what triggered the memory the other day but chocolate cigarettes popped into my head. You could buy them when I was a child. All American brands. We used to pretend to smoke. It sounds very weird today but at the time it seemed normal. Everyone smoked back then. I sketched this out.

Candy cigarettes never cut the mustard.

Sickly sweet white sticks with glowing scarlet tips.

Suck them until they turned sticky most unsatisfactory.

We favoured chocolate cigarettes

bought from Parrs on the way to the matinee.

One of us would open a packet

and offer them round just like our parents did,

pretend to smoke until the end got too soggy

then peel the paper away reveal cylinders

of cheap chocolate pocked with holes.

Camel, Chesterfield, Lucky Strike.

A double whammy indoctrination

the normalisation of a lethal addiction

plus the superiority of American culture.

Well, I mean, that’s Elvis up there on the screen

riding the wall of death until he fell off,

one hot August night in 1977.

It is far from complete and the end is weak. It really needs more work but I thought I'd show you this work in progress anyway. Watch this space.

Here's an old cover by Iron and Wine.

Until next time.