Tag Archives: nostalgia

Untitled *Biopic Poem (Draft)

Video tape is
black under music,
shut out from playing fields,
working behind its plastic window.

Soil segmentations are
aerated by earthworms,
next to pinned
flags of the world.

A cut of Schindler’s List for schools,
shook us behind our desks
in a room with
pencil crayon atlases.

I caught your biopic
by luck, in the cast net of stars,
flicking through satellites, stations,
happy enough without pause
to be embarrassed for them now,

because what a hold our new self-images had,
not yours I noticed, the beyond-wise (or a bit mad)
escaped their young shadows.

The lesson differently pieced together by everyone,
who is ever going to learn the role that
fumbled then crushed dialogue
once played in sweetly stupid
love.

At a paranoid pitch, too,
making molecular
wildness inside
tone-blind to what feelings
seemed to scream.

I passed through an obsolete sleep
into days that test me more,
sure that you were a movie star –

what significance might be best asked of
the miscast stars I dreamt for us,
their celebrity easier
wound back for memory
than innocent as wax torches
held to faces we don’t have.

But I forget the horror of each
awkward hallway
shivering in bones,
bodies jostling for steps on stairs,
and names called to be heard.

I’ve yet to label my working title
in a smudged, thick,
left-handed daub

and almost yours,
wise and tall,
joined up and circled Disney dots to i’s of yours,
remembered only just but like
ice cream in a cone,
clever and kind,
and you would put up with
this nonsense – and more

bursting through in spits

and I remember a bit about
my better double in History.

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Epilogue of the Rabbit’s Tongue

london_busqPicture: Miroslav Sasek

Some things warrant ignoring. Please be aware that what follows may be one such thing. In this long, rambling and tedious post, we concern ourselves with an event that never happened, like the moon landings, or the assisination of the Loch Ness Monster. However, it was my great pleasure to take this opporunity to thank some of the many people who have helped make Peter and The Hare who they are, the blog they are, when they are, if they are.

Thanks for listening.

P.S. Is your computer Y2K compliant?

Continue reading Epilogue of the Rabbit’s Tongue

Relics & Games

It’s OK to have heroes. Just a short post to say, like the left hand of a Saint supposedly preserved in a cathedral, for crowds to shuffle by very slowly, and in awe, some things are not yet turned to dust.

the closest thing we have to recorded dreams. That’s why when a black bird flew over my head one evening, and simultaneously I heard a child’s cry, and someone in one of those tall buildings nearby, from a glowing window, pressed “Play” on two incongruous tapedecks – I thought of Zelda .

When Zelda spotted a tower in the distance that could never be reached, when Zelda had a vision of a dark future before it happened, when Zelda played “The Song of Storms” and changed the weather, when Zelda taught a new melody to the spirit child in the forest… thank you.

It’s also the 10th Anniversary of Grim Fandango, everyone. There are games we bring to a close, and games we will never complete, and I wish I spent more time in this mexican beatnik film noir afterlife, it’s firearms that shoot funeral flowers, its simulated poetry dives, its magazine-cutout-montage-people, its Art Deco, glorious-yet-disconcerting temples of seedy, cartoon delight. It’s plight of the common man transported to a totally uncommon and impolite setting.  

At the end of the dayall the pieces go in the same box, and the loose ends take on semi-mythical properties, and I shall not be surprised if my afterlife takes on something of the colour of this… “game”.

We can’t be pixel-perfect. We can expect to lose just as much as we win, but we can learn to enjoy losing, call it exploration. If I’ve neglected to mention the best day of your life, or your favourite of the chunky grey cartridges in my attic, that wasn’t the point. A speck of dust is like a boulder to a microchip.