The snare drum rattles and pops a staccato introduction, doubles and triplets complemented by the low swinging parping of multiple trombones that get the shoulders swinging for several bars before the bright trumpet section start up the main riff of Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing; all high end sass and macho brassy swagger, teasing you instrumentally, over and over before, finally, three minutes in, a joyous chorus swells and erupts
impressed into wax
an irrepressible groove
mounting to release
Marina Bay Sands
An enormous surfboard structure sits atop three white skyscrapers, towering above the bay. An azure blue sweep of water, speckled with tourists and selfie sticks, stretches the length of the gigantic shelf with no edge apparent, seemingly nothing to separate the laughing and tanned from falling fifty seven floors into the tarmac heart of the resort
the great and the good
suspended, floating in clouds
forgetting to swim
Casing the Joint
Down there, by the industrial units with steel roller doors and weeds poking through brickwork, a selection of vans of various sizes came and went. One unit in particular drew a steady stream caked in muck or gleaming like teeth in a commercial. A red panel van sat with the engine running, headlights cutting through the falling gloom as a flash of bright white suddenly lit the small window in the galvanized frontage. A hooded figure clattered out awkwardly and made for the driver’s side; I prepared to take chase
turned up my collar
against the cold wind and sang
How You Like Me Now?
The Fast and the Furious
Some people go fast
in Hot Wheels cars.
Vin Diesel sports
a grappling hook.
A blonde woman
she is instead
Michael Jackson fights
drug gangs and Joe Pesci
to save kids; he turns
into a freaking robot.
I am too old
for this shit.
Leonardo Di Caprio
fucks Kate Winslet;
I think we all know
how this one ends.
Image from: www.msbnana.blogspot.com
our flight plan repetition
dead people’s luggage clogs the runways of the mind.
exploitation of the blind
grounded forever in the baggage of your kind,
tied up together in tales of better times
with snapped straps that we have chosen to rebind.
travelling through life, imaginary friends at your side
tell us all exactly what it is that you expect to find?
My friends, the truth is that we are all just flying blind,
whirling on a rock, staring at a star with streaming eyes
and we are all alone, together, hoping it will rise,
and that we are just a moment, blinking through the sky.
Image is “Earthrise” from Wikipedia taken by William Anders on the Apollo 8 moon mission: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earthrise
Smashed in riotous circumstances,
he wobbled at every function
fanatically followed by “the sheep”
he called them; and they followed
bleating their two-bit ambitions
in the wake of his rising star.
He really didn’t care;
they liked the money,
he liked the company,
it was lonely at the top.
He popped another
and dove right in.
The flock grew infamous behind him,
braying loudly, squabbling furiously,
eager to sup from the hand that fed
too busy clutching at bottles instead,
fighting dirty, spreading muck and filth,
he was theirs, at least in their heads.
They really didn’t care,
his cash stopped flowing,
he was empty inside,
they’d drunk him dry.
They waved goodbye
The shepherd cried out
but nobody listened;
it was all just an act,
the boy who cried wolf,
nominated by the Academy
consumed by the herd.
St. Michaels Tower sits watching
the black and white cows grazing
upon the bright green fields leading
us on through the gates of Avalon
sat lonely atop the mighty Tor,
rising high above rows of pylons
that thread the emerald pastures
between busy roads and hedgerows.
The midday sun casts a long shadow,
the charcoal outline of the old yew tree
draped delicately across dotted nettles,
providing shelter for the aged weary
trudging through the land of faeries,
tracing King Arthur’s deep footsteps
through the ageless fields of Avalon,
through many seasons born and gone,
the famed sword lives on,
set into stone
buried beneath the roundabout.