|
[Sep. 2nd, 2017|11:39 pm] |
Go on, try it…
Mental illness
Like something out of A power play Big scene The Big Duke in the big scene. Body language… what swift cross of leg! Dynamic… that is the word Angle of body in chair is forward Tilted, yeah… But this thrusting guy in sharp suit With the sunset over metropolis Out the window (vast window) He is confused, well ‘frustrated’ Or maybe he is pretending to be. I understand him. I know how it feels To bash inexpertly at keys To be stumped by summat simple
But come on They have come on in The cavalry There they are in semicircle before him already They had been called in before This is the Big Duke I told ya It’s his big scene Come on Keep up
Let’s brainstorm Let’s talk this out Don’t hold anything back This is the 33rd floor, ‘brothers’ He might have added It is a big scene A 1970’s conspiracy creepiness In the stream Of shared tossing and turning Eddying and gurgling in The Big Universal Sleepiness
Sharp tap tap Keen glance Bristling capacity for action N friction You. You there To a fellow shifting in his seat let me have it.
Well, says the Scotsman Softly and carefully And continues quite well too Lolling and revealing Doleful and delicious Till the sentence runs on a little too long And the pace really seems to be lag Behind the charged demand For a solution And the attentiveness Which at first Had had em hanging on a word like ‘Redolent’ Was withdrawn Leaving him seem quite young and scruffy And not really With it And he starts to doubt himself And begins to trail off Too much honesty was it Governor? Oh bugger Well he finally finishes With the three words that say I don’t know Really.
Have you? Says the Big Duke Ever taken a course in public speaking? If you haven’t, yet I would recommend it As it will assist you. In life And he moves on And if you hadn’t noticed Or weren’t reading this You would think that Was it for the Scotsman But, you know No It wasn’t.
For as the talk progressed And as the men tried To stem the tide Of all the senseless Fucking Going on there Out there In the sun-set-upon metropolis Out the window Someone mentioned Genes and High-investment Parenting; the predilection Thereof Of certain races Mmm… And the Big Duke Rose out of his seat And all manners of angles followed him Oh what thrust! What movements he considered He was like an architect and A master engineer Calculating arrears And movements of debt And succour And poses and power And pistons hammering Numbers And shackles placed on those Who would stand Enterprising fellows By the Dead hand And he smiles to himself And catches as the night suffocates vision to the interior The eye of the Scotsman And he wonders You know Genuinely wonders If it wouldn’t be advantageous To take HIM under His wing As a high investment Kind of parenting ‘Redolent’ He thinks it refers to The colour of the setting sun.
Now, ladies and gents This is the Big Duke I told ya A word he might mistake But it’s usually for a reason And he knows Things That I could tell you about But which you wouldn’t believe So suspend it
For as the men departed to Run their channels And their lives He motioned For the Scot to stay a while. You need more drive He says You engorge But you don’t have sufficient Direction and Thrust Ever thought about a new car For example? A new K class One that has had thought And knowledge Lavished on it. Think of where it would take you In life.
The Scotsman was flattered With the attention and What turned out to be an offer And agreed to report to A certain dealership The next day.
And that was that You might have thought But the THOUGHT is what the Big Duke is after You see what I mean? And it aint waking thoughts Those are just the resultant Form from which we can glean If all the connections are taught Clicked together neat You are in Room 314 Tonight He says to the Scot Get a good night’s sleep.
You rejoin us around three In the morning and If you could open the hotel window You would hear Betwikst the odd click of feet a few hollers with little gasps in their wake that linger Till they’re sucked up by the street. All, though, is muted here The net curtains a drawn sheen And the air conditioning on In Room 314 The Scotsman turns on his side And in his softly breathing sleep enters the car dealership.
Well it is a beast That is for sure Sleek, black, the bonnet Rising in smooth curl of lip Calm fury in the engine beneath Sumptuous click Of door. He gets in. It is a dream. The salesman approaches Sticks his head through retracted window Looks like a detective From a movie shot Well? Well, really. This is Something says the Scot. K class comes the confirmation. The Big Duke sent me Reports the Scot Oh I know Says the salesman It is yours.
Good lord!
You’ll just need to get it out of the store I will see you out. So much power To control So much fever Burning under the clutch It is wild And the Scot Who is a poet at heart A man who could lie in puffed-up pillows of verbiage And stretch in synonym And Preen in pause of punctuation Alight in alliteration And so on Isn’t used to such thrust Beneath his feet His last motor was a Mazda A Small one at that. And it is a real job to avoid bumps And scrapage And keep it purring at heel.
Still he makes it out and is On the street Thrust he has Engorged Well Why not? Just a little direction required. The sun is up Early morning A new Dawn Neat Nice to have a patron And a raw growl Rumbling beneath bird song. He takes a HARD RIGHT And the Big Duke Sits up in Bed. Eyes wide Tight
And he sees the Scot face 7 barriers that signal turn back That scream Turn back! But they retract all the same One after the other In deference To what it means To be the Scot At the wheel of the beast.
Out now Beyond tarmacced civility The road deteriorates In quality Pot holes Endanger Sand staggers The traction The footing Less sure. And then he sees a drop Shrill drop To river below Courting, eddying Giggling and cursing The City To sleep. And there below The Scot sees all the people who have been here before him Scrambling at the loose earth of the bank Shouting to be rescued Shouting to be saved They grip each other Force themselves up Over each other But they are not a foothold For each other They fall and slide Back to the current below. The Scot sighs as Alarm mounts slowly In pulses He places the beast in reverse To leave those below behind.
He noses the curling lip away And it grows dark The ground Seems not to know what it should be Like a geography unprogrammed for A curiosity unforeseen.
That is enough For the Big Duke He turns the light on Illumination A wisp Of a ghost Gone He wanders to the window Puts his hand on his heart Murmur of resolve Or Gas? It is hard to say This human form Can betray
Whores and gunfire Flatulence and suburbia Elation at the Unexpected smell of mint A child’s eyes Exaltant Blue bags of extended skin Under eyes Skint The Big Duke Resolves it all The temptation To raise his arms To have them SHOOK In gratification In praise of the charms of the Great Conductor is too great too slake. The Big Duke Knows how to keep the melody clean And Nods over to the bed in Room 314.
Doleful and woeful The Scot rises Early Before the Dawn. Outside Seagulls hawk and flap both wings Picking at the rubbish around the bins. |
|
|