I used to be a claustrophobic deejay

I used to be a claustrophobic deejay
I’d spin a disc then dive outside
hyperventilating
gasping for air
before the next tune was due to be played
I did this all night long
my heart thumping along to the beat
my head pounding out on the street
it was a crazy situation

but don’t get me wrong
I was electric and semi-eclectic
in my tasteful choice of songs
I played disco and punk
and funk and techno
I even once played al fresco
at a gig in Fresno (no not really)
but that was all before I went wacko
from too much Michael Jacko
and my life became a bad thriller

in my claustrophobic deejay days
I tried to stray from the straight and narrow grooves
by interspersing the unexpected
mixing with the likes of Carl Orff’s ‘Carmina Burana’
or Rick Wakeman’s ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’
just for fun and to give the dancers a rest
from the 125 beats per minute dance floor workouts

and to the twelve inch instrumental version
of Donna Summer’s ‘I Feel Love’
I would take the chance of performing solo
a sermon of sorts from the mount of turning tables
my mirrorballed ideas would flash with the strobes
and set my worshippers alight
to be born again of the night

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Early 80’s – this was the mobile disco I used to run with a friend before doing some club work for a while. The name was shamelessly borrowed from a brand of cigarettes! Can’t remember where the man and woman logo came from but I was into early 20th century b/w design at the time.

3 poems inspired by Andrew Wyeth’s Wind from the Sea painting viewed in the National Gallery of Art, Washington DC on this day in 2016.

Wind from the Sea

In an upstairs room
At the end of the hall
Sat the man
On a cast iron bed

Bare boards and naked bulb
Unlit in the evening’s decline
The field outside viewed
Through a half-opened sash window
Two net curtain ghosts
Floating like torn shrouds
On a saintly breeze

No-one had been this way for years
He wasn’t even sure he was still breathing
Not since the birds had stopped singing
Or the rain falling

For all was dust and peeling paper
Cracked and dry
Parched as a hobo’s lips in summer
Crippled as a beggar on a city street corner
Sky white
Unending
Questioning

The man sighed away his seconds

(20th June 2017)

 

The View Behind

The man turned to see
her lain upon the bed
The glimmering girl with
apple blossom hair
The wind from the sea
caressed her cheeks
Whispered lullabies
far too sweet

Rising from the edge
of dark reverie
He threw a shadow
upon her face
A rippled splash
in which he sank
Like silver trout
after the fly

And down the hall
retraced his steps
The pictures hung
on tired threads
From light to dark
and back again
A mirrored room
cast iron bed

He sat and watched
the view behind

(22nd June 2017)
with some borrowing from
The Song of Wandering Aengus
by William Butler Yeats

 

Pictures at an Exhibition

The older I get
The less I understand women…

He could feel her nails clawing at his back
But he would not look round –
To apologise twice would be grovelling
And what was done was done

The fact that she still wants me to, well
It’s tantamount to reliving the original act
And I’m not having any of that
Not after all these years

Besides
Life was only ever meant to be a work of fiction
Like pictures at an exhibition or walking down the hall
From one identical room to another

You continue to take away from it what you want
Regardless of any stillborn intent –
The fact that you keep bringing it up
Doesn’t make a jot of difference to me

He knew this would raise her hackles
Even from the dead she still taunted him
Every fucking day the same
It was why he had moved out here

To get away from your fury
But you had to follow me and haunt me
And fill my head and house with anger
Whilst outside the landscape remains empty –

The less he understood women
The older he got…

(24th June 2017)

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Wind from the Sea by Andrew Wyeth (1917-2009)
tempera on hardboard, 1947
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC, USA

 

 

The Postcard Poet

I recently started a little side project using my travel and hiking photos. You can find them on Facebook and Twitter and occasionally here. Links below. Hope you like:

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Twitter: @ThePostcardPoet

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/postcardpoet/

minute by minute

I paint brushstrokes on a grey sky
and sit and wait for a while
you never know what might fly by
minute by minute by avian mile

believe me, they do not deceive my eyes
these airborne birdies so versatile
in flight so gracious up on high
minute by minute my widening smile

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for RSPB Big Garden Birdwatch 27th – 29th January 2018

https://www.rspb.org.uk/get-involved/activities/birdwatch/?channel=paidsearch&gclid=CjwKCAiA47DTBRAUEiwA4luU2c9gFxBni0vbHypxXrVuY4yFCuroNVWrodC4uUdL3z8uuG1JJWhP4hoCwVAQAvD_BwE

Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe

Mother made quite a fuss
Police probed, investigated us
But it was all fun, artistic fake
Making money for god’s sake

Maybe McLaren was my Manet
A cash from chaos punk cliché
My naked flesh filled the screen
Underage, declared obscene

I didn’t mind playing Victorine
Being part of his money machine
She was later the whore Olympia
And like me created mild hysteria

From a generation with no future
I drew strength from this venture
But now my Manet has moved on
Anarchic in his musical denouement

Would I change any of this?
Regret I hadn’t covered my tits?
Oh god no! Just look at that stare
I’m now a fucking millionaire.

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(photo: Bow Wow Wow album cover 1981)

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/extravagant/