Soliloquy in F.

August 22, 2009 at 3:47 pm | Posted in writing | 9 Comments

well, well, that didn’t go as expected
he said dropping his salute to the setting sun
wailing chorus, gingatao, she’s done
they’re always more hungry down the bottom end
we should write an ode to saw wai

and conjunction placed the glass
ark inside this bottle an obvious
ship of fools wailing an elegant
arc and fills the glass

t’was sumerians invented the arabesque
then muslims, scholars and gentlemen all
considered the sacred
whilst the west wind blew an end
declaring nothing

i was looking
for the bridge haha lay down
misere, didn’t stand a chance
son, scorpion sting and so forth
Sir Les, well actually his wife
chattering jewellery with new york cool discussing the spelling of Basquiat in previous summer pastures whilst their neglected children came to me for fulfilment of their egos, endlessly consuming the regurgitations of the press, extra virgin full of light.

Viva Dario Fo! He knocks me out of reverie, bye bye blackbird blackbird bye bye (I first realised my career would go no further than generic drunk businessmen, play the Art of Waiting again, that’s cool. Hmm he says seeing her bending over the pool table, women are such vicious creatures and men so slow, there’s a good reason beyond morality, mortality, monogamy beyond the obviousness of orchids.


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  1. yr longer pieces are like feasts for the mind, so many pieces to taste, consume, and ruminate over

  2. j’envoie le bonsoir à Paul des antipodes,
    it almost rhyme…
    poetry is very hard for me to read in English, it is a very laborious exercise but I red your prayer without stopping, and found it beautiful.
    Thank you very much for stopping and commenting on my blog.

  3. Another great poem. ‘Beyond the obviousness of orchids’ is a brilliant final line but I also think the first two lines work so well as an intro. I liked this poem so much I kind of wrote a reply to it in my post today. Call it Gingatao inspiration.

  4. It’s those endless nights creeping in trenchcoats of dull humidity. The crickets songs have been baked by the sweltering August sun and the treefrogs sound weary and sad. Rubbing the coarse stubble of a wrinkled but once handsome face, the guitar player stares into the blackness beyond the dirty window. There’s no one left out there who remembers his name as he cracks the roasted unsalted peanuts throwing the dry husks to the floor. Hours like this he likes to reminisce over other summers of bourbon and cigars. Since the hospital and all the doctor’s warnings perhaps he shouldn’t but he wonders what good this life is anyway. Living alone or dying alone is no different; just a matter of quiet and useless time. He thinks about a piano player in a grey fedora and a skinny tie loosened down the front of a sweaty shirt overlooking Botany Bay. The rain begins to fall in pelting rhythms against a stucco wall and he hums a long forgotten tune. We are the children of the moon’s reflection trying to settle on trembling waves of blue night.That lady in her sequined dress drunk on amber brandy swaying to our tunes, do you remember her sad reflection in the smoky mirror; our mother, shining like the moon?

  5. You had me at the first two lines, P 😉 xx

  6. Oh, I love this, right up to its perfect end: the obviousness of orchids. 🙂

  7. Concatenation, often guilty of looking for the quick fix, failed to make the connection.

  8. Maybe the ladies are just better at pool? It’s the maths and the distraction. A little bit sad – irony – with the need for another drink. I like these ramblings and wordplay and this is like a middle where the piano in the lobby was a beginning… so much more to be told. ‘They’re always more hungry down the bottom’ is brilliant.

    (I remember the guitar players name, F. And the blossom tree. Heady days indeed)

  9. You can hear the crows in this one. Ark Arc

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