Starman, barman…. I don’t damn a give

[tectak]

This is an accidental posting due to a technical malfunction. It is edited but should not be a thread. Apologies to all, especiall billy who will no doubt try to put it right!

I am becoming quite concerned by the sudden duck-dive
in
to
the ostensibly muddy and shallow depths in which some writers
are dabbling.
Don’t they realise that their arses are exposed as they paddle furiously
to
keep
their clapping bills in the pond-bottom shite,
in the murky morass of other’s waste and weed?
What am I supposed to say, when they stick it up and ask
what I think of what they’ve found down there. “Look, man
this
is
the place to be. Try this shite. What do you think. Sure it stinks,
but what does it smell of.
You don’t know? Well, guess. That’s all you need to do
to justify the arse-up, head down gurgling. This is poetry.”
OK. OK. You all win. I will do it to myself if not to you.

Take
offense,
if this seems aimed at your feathered vent.
But this is my shite.

Or is it.

My poem is obviously about…..about…..the duck-dive in
morals and of virtues and of the lack of role models since the sixties.
Yes.
That’s it.
Starman is Elvis Presley. The greatest star who ever lived, and who left the building
more times than I have used ink cartridges.
The broken gestures and bloodied stumps are the Vets we campaigned out
of existence. Dylan’s tambourine and the Banjo that sang our song, whilst Buddhists set
alight
to themselves about something or other as the splattered eye-shadow of DustySpringfield
icon-ed into our love-not-war lives. It was all about love
back then. All about YOU….not about ME.
Concepts were all to hell, or at least that hot…and slow down, stand on the brakes,
You're losing it, you’re getting cold;
and chilled you will become, as your marrow leaks into the good green earth
where like the astaxanthin in your bird-bath, staining red will soon be used by Israel’s
pharmaceuticals
to
make
lipstick for the masses
and jewish girls. Notwithstanding the force of war, the memory of war, the sheer
commonplace happening of cross-hairs in sites, nation goodnight.
We
still
are in denial. Holocaust or some other cost.
We are nearly at the end of this spoiler. I have billowed and blown to be noticed. Like a critic before me
I
have
been fanned by fame and now like you many, am fucked if I know
anything
anymore.
Given the life we lead since the good old, bad old days,
Some starved in famines (no change there).
Some stuffed like snipe in pheasant, in duck, in goose, in swan in
peacock….and slit, then cut open, served up in rich Madeira sauce….
I can only ask, for God’s sake, how long is this journey…are we there yet? No.
We
have
though
passed the point of no return.
This is my shite, do you like it.
Did you get the message?
Was it subtle, or obscure?
Did you get the meaning?
How
Should
I
format
it?
Short or long?
Does it matter?
We are talking shite, here.
This stuff is easy.
Normally, it’s constipation-verse.
but I can write anything
once I
have
the
runs.

Starman has left the building. I really don’t get it

Broken you say, bloodied gestures, stumped on boned and ragged pins;
severing like buddhists banjos, lying splattered in dusted places. YOU!
Concept cold, concept hot...busted brakes by standing hard and then. ME!
The fractured marrow pours and percolates down through tweeded valleys green
with the algae, rained in oil; Haematoccocus pluvialis, lipsticked like a jewish girl,
shoots a nation through the cross of hairs and leave denial the other choice.
What do you want that blows and billows to be noticed, fanned and FUCKED
starved and stuffed, boiled and pickled in madeira's finest: are WE there?
tectak
2012