In Molesworth

James Reyne plays the Molesworth Hotel

(On the night of this photo, from this very microstage, it might not look possible, but it is true, true, true! The man above caused the mayhem below)

I come upon a fawning crowd
Of ferals
Bogan fresh and proud
Straight from the shower 
And into the pub
Girls glistening with glitter 
Post hot water scrub
Their stretch jeans too tight
Their muffin tops showing
Breasts fixed just right
Pancake face glowing
The boys in their utes
Polished for showing
All looking cute
With product hair woven
They come in their droves
From asbestos laced shedding
From acreage homes
Town houses with cladding
They gather in cliques
Or large social groups
The drinks go down nicely
The talk turns to hoots
And bold statements of fact
And alcohol hugs
The bravado act
As beer goes in chugs
The girls are a twitter
Who did what to whom?
They flit hither thither
Across the filling room
The singles are looking 
For a match for the night
All out there hooking
Their catch to hold tight
The couples are clingy
Not risking detachment
While the bully boys prowl
Asking “What that meant?”
The lonely boys savour
Their chances tonight
And if they’re not lucky
There’s always a fight

We’re packed in the room
As the lights slowly fade
There’s noise in the gloom
It comes from the stage
A postage stamp corner
Two metres by three
Can it be enough
For a man such as he?
Hushed anticipation
A God almighty roar
An explosive oration
James Reyne’s through the door
They know every word
For every single beat
They’re a seething horde
A mob on its feet
The mob moves as one
Rolling in great waves
And it sings as one
Waking cemeteries of graves
Glasses held aloft
Drinks slosh with abandon
Dancers mash and mosh
Bodies bounce and cannon
Reyne looks astonished
With worry in his eye
They won’t be admonished
They’re living the lie
So he charms them 
And he works them
The favourites are all here
He sings every hit
Everyone holds dear
Delivers with great fervour
Stokes their every passion
They sway and rock and quiver
Out of their heads and thrashing
The pace increases
Momentum builds
They’re here to get
Rock dreams fulfilled
He massages their egos
He caresses their zones
He tickles their fancies
He shakes their bones
He works them to ecstatic climax
As one collective lover
The building shakes
The room erupts
Foundations quake
…..
But it’s not enough

They cry loud, “More, more!”
But James is through the kitchen
Quickly out the door
To quit while you’re ahead
In Molesworth that’s for sure

Together, the mob bows its collective head
They pause in the afterglow
They know tonight went red
They know how to put on a show
In Molesworth

for eternity

Image

image

A poem for thine eyes to see
Words that speak of love for thee
A verse from where my head doth rest
Upon thy softly rising chest
A breath
A gentle tender plea
To bind our hearts eternally
To state our love is rich and rare
An intimacy that none can share
I’ll stay with you through eternal life
My friend my lover my eternal wife

The Death of Miss Richards

 

Unknown

Did you read A S Patric’s Black Rock White City? “The Death of Miss Richards” stands alone as a poem, but read the book to meet the character properly. Highly recommended.

Why did miss richards die

Jump in front of the train

Without learning to fly

She broke her wrists and her ankles

Before the Hallam train hit

For the briefest of moments

She hurt a bit

Although and however

She may have been hurting

Previously forever

 

Why didn’t miss richards cry

Let out her feelings

Sob, weep and sigh

 

Miss Richards always looked so content

Nose in a book

Mind being sent

Not a woman in pain

Not a lass to complain

Of a heart broken or rent

And she ate vegetarian food

For the soul

It looked good

It makes you wonder how should

What actually could

Make miss richards want to die

 

Miss Richards looked serene

Like one in a dream

Thoughtful and peaceful

Quiet as a mouse

I note she loved music

And the capacity to choose it

Her playlists sashay lists

Of walls without bridges

As we on the ridges

Played miss richards I spy

 

I never said hi miss richards

Nor hello now goodbye

So she sat by herself until lunchtime went by

Miss richards headphones and book

Ne’er one to sook

Ne’er a wet eye

As she kept to herself

Alone on her shelf

Self sufficient as one cloud in a blue blue sky

Oh why oh why

Did miss richards have to die

Hedge End Lane

Hedge End Lane

we took a walk down Hedgend Lane

squeezed it in ‘tween showers of rain

a short walk from the bogie road

walking to an end unknown

 

with us walking we took the whippet

keen as mustard leashed and at it

we set off into an icy grind

tempting fate against winter’s mind

 

the road was dirt puddles like scales

the wind was cold sharp as nails

the sky was grey and overcast

prophesising an arctic blast

 

we met two cockies one unwell

the other uted name of Neville

we chewed the fat for a moment or two

then nev went off to feed his ewes

 

he knew our house and seller’s name

said she fell victim to a scam

he asked about the other cock

down the road about a block

 

we said we saw its damaged wing

we couldn’t get close to do a thing

nev had been asked by his lovely wife

to mercy kill it take its life

 

as we waved farewell to nev and ute

we thought the man was quite astute

a life at bogie on a farm

a laconic style of rural charm

 

the next instalment was a procession of lambs

from biggest to smallest dashing for dams

such cute and playful snow white children

it’s quite a flock old nev’s a building

 

then we came to the farm homestead

work dogs wagging tethered to sheds

at the front gate there’s a dead bloated sheep

the one nev warned us about to go deep

 

onward we walked into more open space

where grazing occurs at a slow country pace

a hereford watched our brisk passage past

as it chewed on cud made of wet winter grass

 

at the end of the road there’s a pleasant surprise

a tableland drop off topped by glowering skies

the gap between hills is not very wide

but big enough to see down the hillside

 

it’s a break in the mountain to a view of great grace

we can see to the plains and expansive green space

to the base of the tableland looking down is a thrill

from our throne like position at the top of the hills

Ni’ ni’ sweetie pie

Ni’ ni’ sweetie pie

I’m going to leepy la

To the land where the dream tree grows …..

Once I’m settled and curled

And my heart has unfurled

I’ll be ready to witness the show

I’ll beam all beatific at the wonders terrific

Of the whorls and the heat and the snow

I’ll meander with candour

Past sweet treats and wander

To the rooms where they play with a bow

Sweet music will render

My soul to surrender

To the passions of love’s inner glow

And I’ll put all at stake

On the heroes I’ll make

As I stand up preparing to go

Back to the darkness

To the bedroom soft harkness

Of the breathing of sleep low low low

Summer meditation

At first it is the light you become aware of

The golden hue of a summer evening sun

The surreal enhancement of every vista

An enriching highlight to the end of the day

Take a deep breath

Sigh it out through an open mouth

Cleanse

Then the sounds reach into you

A rippling cascade of water

A wind gently rustling leaves

A magpie carolling

Find your position of comfort

Melt your body into the earth

Unwind

Your skin responds to the air around you

Its featherlight touch, gossamer weight

Soothing, reassuring, fresh and clean

Smooth your brow

Part your lips

Drop your shoulders

Let your hands and feet fall where they will

Relax

Close your eyes

Meditate

The world around you fades

You pacify it, clear your mind

Letting everything that was today go

Focus your mind’s eye between your eyebrows

Know your breathing

Breathe in

Breathe out

Breathe in

Breathe out

Float

Be

33 kinds of rain

The misting rain as light as being

The pitter patter rain of anticipation

The sun shower rain of joyfulness

The dawn lit rain of new awakenings

The driving rain of persistent harassment

The piercing rain of pain and hurt

The bleak rain of uncertainty

The saturating rain of grief

The pounding rain of anger

The cold rain of fear and loathing

The persistent rain of melancholy

The drought breaking rain of celebration

The tropical rain of surprise and relief

The tin roof rain of night time snuggles

The slanting rain of getting under your skin

The fat wet rain of things to come

The dull rain of misery

The easing rain of hope for a day

The sheeting rain of washing your sins away

The aerosol rain that never settles

The eddying rain of indefinite endings

The ominous rain of growing darkness

The thunder laden rain of shock and fear

The storm driven rain of nature’s authority

The drenching rain of no escape

The floating rain of disproportionate outcomes

The harrowing rain of oppression and spite

The lightning flash rain of vision burned

The unexpected rain of scrambling for shelter

The flooding rain of tears

The icy rain of an unknown future

The sleety rain of chilled to the bone

The sunlit rain of clarity of purpose

The dancing rain of swirling possibilities

The evening rain of contemplation

The elemental rain of fundamental outcomes

The cloaking rain of secrecy

The wispy rain of dissipation

The hard rain of death

The transparent rain of release

The soft rain of peace

Dark, black night, cold, white frost, warm, golden sunshine

The cold can bite you here. It is sharp and crisp and penetrating. In the dark of a cloudless, moonless, star bright landscape, in the nocturnal brilliance of  moonlit contrasts, in the shelter of a blackened room, it stabs through the bedclothes. It targets your knees or a hip, whichever joint is most elevated and least supplied with a warming blood supply. It ices your brain.

Then the morning comes. The frozen grass cracks under your feet. The birdbaths are glazed and crazed and the world is a wonderland of white light, of reflective crystals. It’s all worth it.

Then comes the sun. Gently rising over the tree lined eastern horizon, shafts start breaking through the cold barrier in scattered beams of raw illumination. Light sprays jump from each hoary crystal bed they touch. But just as quickly, just as they commence their flashy dance, they are replaced by translucent droplets, silvery and clear, mirroring the world around them in fresh formed globules like polished convex glass.

Then the rich, thermal bath of undiluted yellow sunshine begins. It bathes our world in a warming golden glow, washing from our memory the cold that was snapping at our heels such a short time ago. We revel in it. We revere it. We relish the transition from the sharp edged winter’s night to the slow, melting, immersive onset of another glorious North East Victorian winter’s day.