Mohawk Man and other poems
by
P. J. Dodd
Published by P. J. Dodd on Smashwords.
First edition (2010 ebook edition).
ISBN 9780956479211
Copyright © 2010 by P. J. Dodd.
The book author retains sole copyright to his contributions to this book. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This ebook is presented without digital rights management. The author has extended to you the courtesy of assuming you are not a criminal and the author has therefore not placed technological restrictions on the use of this ebook. Please show the author a little respect by not using this ebook in ways that violate the author's copyrights.
This book is available in paperback print (UK)
ISBN 9780956479204
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Dedication
This book is dedicated in its entirety to my parents.
Contents
Connect with P. J. Dodd online
Foreword
A few of the poems in this book have been posted on the internet before, or circulated via email, though not in the format or style you will read them here. If you think the poems in this book look familiar they were probably rough dribblings that have since gone through extensive modifications under the provision of the full artistic licence. The fossils of any proto-poems are considered as just that; the poems in this book are the final versions proper. Anything else is a sketch, or not my handiwork.
P. J. Dodd, March 2010.
Preface
Mohawk Man and other poems came into being following several revisions of poems that were written over the last ten years. Even though the poems are on subjects connected to me, they are not a record of the last ten years of my life. I hate talking about myself at the best of times and struggle to think of anything more tawdry and self-indulgent than plotting my life in a series of poems. Besides, too many artists only look inward, presuming their lives are worth reading about, often following a traumatic event or emotional turbulence. There are many directions for an artist to look at, many interesting subjects to examine in the outer world, and Mohawk Man and other poems aims to show that observational and polemical poems are equal in merit to emotive and personal poems.
Mohawk Man and other poems is contemporary poetry on a variety of topics including music, people, events, memories, and art, in a style that combines feeling and ideas expressed in a fresh voice. There are strong views and honesty in every poem. Mohawk Man and other poems is a collection of poems that are partly a reaction to the world, and the poetry it has produced, speaking differently than everyone else’s poems. And yes, that means a lot of swearing too, and humour, and a few new words.
The title of this book was chosen because it is distinctive, as was the subject of the poem by the same name. There were better alternatives that avoided the inference that I sport(ed) a mohawk or am in anyway anything other than a genetic mongrel and wrote a book of poems about my mohawkness. The afterword continues this stream, but first the poems.
Preface (ebook)
This ebook edition of Mohawk Man and other poems is presented using minimal formatting in the epub format. This keeps the file very small and simple. This also allows your reading device to reflow the poems with maximum flexibility and near guarantees that you can open this file without hassle. To this end, no cover image is present within this ebook file. You are perfectly free to add one - see and grab the jpeg file from www.mohawkman.co.uk and this modification is permissible, if you wish to do so (my tests show the file bloats to many times its current size, not a great increase, but your choice). This ebook is presented as is, although it has been tested on a variety of readers.
This ebook is presented without digital rights management. The author has extended to you the courtesy of assuming you are not a criminal and the author has therefore not placed technological restrictions on the use of this ebook. Please show the author a little respect by not using this ebook in ways that violate the author's copyrights.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all the people who believed in me, especially Mum and Dad, Helen, and the rest of the clan. Thank you to Kate and her sharp eyes. And thank you to those who offered little suggestions and/or engaged in cosy discussions that helped with the creation of this book.
Wurbles
“Just do it”, the knitting thespian said.
“Wake up, drive off and un-fuck your head.
Pack light, phone off, petroleum in
and so what about destination.
Find a pub away from all the cows –
sit, lounge, booze for hours.
Cat nap for weeks on end
daydream in plentiful space; mend.
Walk in the fields, over big hills
cry at a whim, giggle at will.
Get out the wurbles inside you
piss them, spit them, shit them through.
Roam among the wildest flowers –
hayfever, ok, only two hours –
then remove yourself and your nose
to the forest and mistiest grove.
Smell the world as it really is
without perfume and city gases.
See the sun at all kinds of hours
without the blockage of sprawling houses.
Go out, go there, go far from men
live only for yourself – fuck ’em.
Set off while you can restrain despair –
run before you are beyond repair.
Quickly and urgently un-fuck your head.
Just do it”, the knitting thespian said.
Polythene
The moonless spits of rain
are chain mail on the windows,
a gag for unscreamed shouts
that the keyboard suffers.
You don’t listen, or read me,
or feel inside the stalemate
and stay under healthy clouds
where delicate scarlet irons
have no affect.
Safely risky and waiting
doesn’t feel warm to these ears;
it’s the pleasant special whisper
that chills arms and necks.
Sod off before I hate you
more than disease and food grime;
no, just noiseless signs, no.
Go.
In the spoiled retreat
when it is calm before dark
there are no charms left;
clammy jokes for humourless souls
and polythene for silk.
It shouldn’t rain every night,
but when will it stop?
Towel in the rain
Cold, hot, my arms can't decide
if the summer rain should cool
from outside shy shelter air
and take the last hour's steam;
or if the sky-ripping lights
should cull goose bumps
and flood colour back to the front
from behind the towel in the rain.
Cold, hot, my legs fight war
against fresh puddles on the floor
and the burn from the party inside;
against the chain-mail towel in the rain
that smothers and presses walkers’ assets;
against the deaf pause of fever tempest
and loud thumps of likely wet pursuits.
Cold, hot, my mind wants all;
a radiance of soothing breezes
to dance in the flow of sunshine;
dry feet, soft feet, eased feet,
to keep up the citrus juice with ice;
a covering with more weight than trousers,
a pressed finely-spun towel in the rain.
Johnny Smithy is no shirt-lifter
He sang in a boy band in his day
With pretty young men, but that's not gay
Listen up miss, listen up mister
Johnny Smithy is no shirt-lifter
Among men he wasn't hard to miss
The skinniest biggest streak of piss
Head so big and talent so small
Songs all naff and voice criminal
He sang in a boy band in his day
And showed off his bum, but that's not gay
Listen up miss, listen up mister
Johnny Smithy is no shirt-lifter
And he sang
Horseshit, horseshit, horseshit, horseshit
Horseshit, horseshit, horseshit, horseshit
And sometimes in key
A man with front and sickly cheek
Grinning stupidly week after week
Through cocaine teeth and zero cool
Lip synching words not worth listening to
He sang in a boy band in his day
And has closet demons, but that's not gay
Listen up miss, listen up mister
Johnny Smithy is no shirt-lifter
And he sang
Horseshit, horseshit, horseshit, horseshit
Horseshit, horseshit, horseshit, horseshit
And hits with Kylie
Breaking out to sing on his own
He cleaned up and improved his tone
Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, what does he do?
All of those and much more too!
He sang in a boy band in his day
About loving all women, but that's not gay
Listen up miss, listen up mister
Johnny Smithy is no shirt-lifter
Older, wiser and becoming drab
Weekends alone, days in rehab
Johnny wants you to cut him slack
At least until after the comeback
He sang in a boy band in his day
In feminine pitch, but that’s not gay
Listen up miss, listen up mister
Johnny Smithy is no shirt-lifter
High ring of flowers
The high ring of flowers
on each cactus part
smile like maypole dancers
in pink elegant dresses.
A crown of triumph,
the silk surviving the spikes.
A crown of majesty,
the family of desert dynasty.
A crown of life,
the circle in circles once more
waiting calmly in the glass room,
taking drops of sunshine
and tincture from the ground.
Until the bee makes his sound
giving curtsey to the crowns.
When the striped hero
glides out and round to the lilies
it is my turn to curtsey the cactus
silently for the joy it gives to me
from the high rings of flowers.
Take your hat
Get your love from the fire.
Take your hat for the road.
Knock side the crystal empire.
Hold on to your pocket gold.
We're travelling again.
We're travelling again
to find the truth you're missing.
Because you can't sing authentic blues
without dirt,
and alcoholism.
Thump thump down the railroad.
Take your hat off at the coast.
Walk around the gypsy rose trees.
Whisper to your father's ghost.
We're running again.
We're running again
to find the heart you're missing.
Because you can't sing honest blues
without dirt,
and alcoholism.
Wear your boots proudly my son.
Take your hat from tomorrow's thief.
Preach the sin of fulsome fun.
Keep your faith in your kerchief.
We're walking again.
We're walking again
to find the soul you're missing.
Because you can't sing the blues
without dirt,
and alcoholism.
You knew he was wrong
You knew he was wrong
But you took his side anyway
You knew he was wrong
What he did to me day after day
You knew he was wrong
And you let him run all over me
You knew he was wrong
And you knew what it meant to me
A long year ago
We all went our ways
I cleared my head
And you went among the strays
You're still number two
Is it that much of a shock?
He still serves bullshit
On cheap china crock
You knew he was wrong
But you took his side anyway
You knew he was wrong
What he did to me day after day
You knew he was wrong
And you let him run all over me
You knew he was wrong
And you knew what it meant to me
You say he's calm now
And that means what to me?
He was selfish and cheap
And he nearly cost us you and me
He was never worth it
Everyone could smell his shit
He was never special
Just childish and Scottish
You knew he was wrong
But you took his side anyway
You knew he was wrong
What he did to me day after day
You knew he was wrong
And you let him run all over me
You knew he was wrong
And you knew what it meant to me
From the very start
Something very big was amiss
And you chose his side
You two-faced treacherous bitch
He's an insect and a rat
And a scheming little flea
But this never was about him
It was only ever about you and me
You knew he was wrong
But you took his side anyway
You knew he was wrong
What he did to me day after day
You knew he was wrong
And you let him run all over me
You knew he was wrong
You you you you you you
You knew he was wrong
Advertisement break 1
Hello there little boy little girl
little moment for us to share
us to care about the life
we all live and connect in
making plans for the balance
of life of the right
direct energy through night
together it'll be bright
around your life your home
why don't you buy a mobile phone?
oh please
why don't you buy a mobile phone?
Lesbian Maximus
Earring, shaved head
Stylish, brain dead
Presence, common
Part man, woman
Lesbian Maximus
Red wine, lipstick
Vegan, hashish
Jaded, pagan
Faithless, born again
Lesbian Maximus
Artist, hated
Liberal, dated
Mundane, meagre
Childless, figure
Lesbian Maximus
Bossy, passive
Slender, massive
No bra, graceful
Arm hair, tasteful
Lesbian Maximus
Council, squawking
Writing, talking
Lecture, muzzle
Lady, puzzle
Lesbian Maximus
Mohawk man
It's fantastic
to watch the exploding arc
and perfect texture fan;
bursting from a quiet nape
over helio-glazed pastures
of daring wax and pride,
the mohawk makes the suited man
walk taller in his seat.
A sweaty eyebrow
of late summer rush
marks the mohawk
as dry and new
as a natural kiss within;
marching downward buzzcuts
chord urbane hooks and
smooth the working man
into the wilder life.
Through The Strand
The man with hairy legs arched his foot on the bus;
he pointed the seat to full
with tinted bones and delicate sock
and a small large scar on inner thigh.
The man twicked his ride-rocked-shorts;
and the combed terrain on a meal of muscle,
held a ballet shape over the portable music
and was standard bearer for the back seats.
The man let out a musky smooth breath.
A distracted scratch on his ape navel
allowed a wink through The Strand over his sunglasses
and charmed our morning motion with colour.
The man with hairy arms too, and chest,
smiled farewell, whipped his legs down to the pavement,
strode into street shadows of warming air
and into perma-memory of broad delight. Yes.
The man with hairy legs was the first ray of summer,
and it was only May.
Party Parade
The party parade from Baker Street
slid along Georgian terraced parking restrictions
and gathered shoppers and the startled
into herds of gawpers and statue pedestrians,
shepherded with glitter and pinked rainbows
and stark blue and yellow fence posts on overtime –
with majesty's padding and striped hats
to shield the wooden souls from feeling.
Bright, bright, bright is the party parade,
a fleeting congregation of exhibitionism,
calling out to yesterday's enemies;
now wicked names fail on collective fabulousness
and the Christian protestations to butt cheek
bounce down chasms in everyone.
The party parade oozes larger down Oxford Street
to an omnipresent whistle-led beat,
thumping out the sallow shop fronts
and their timid merchandise for the regular.
Onward waxed soldiers and vegetarian cowboys;
acting up in the toy shop,
leaving quiet the gentlemen’s tailors
to give empty smiles to the tourists
and rejoice in their limited daylight freedom.
Strut, strut, strut goes the party parade
through permitted routes of expected rebellion,
along the planned dissent path, avoiding Westminster.
The parade's decriminalised feel mirrors and pills
and think little of Wolfenden, liberals and law lords,
counting none of the monstrous bloody martyrs.
The party parade oils down to cold lions and screened tedium
in a thronged square which grace has slipped away from.
Clap, clap, clap sounds the party parade;
while the glossy tail of clamoured tarted engines
returns silence to the routine shoppers,
offering a tiny sweet mint for the fleshy shouting
and one last gawp at the fatuous lesbian overload.
The Saturday resumes to its eternal rhythm.
Monstrous carbuncle
Did I mention the erection
of milord bloody Rogers?
It's the vulgar steel lodger
with glass atrium un-divine
spoiling the calm skyline
of an old elegant city;
a rubber-stamped tragedy
bloating a prat's ego.
Windscreen birdsong
Zahoom, maheep.
Steamed glasses on a rainy evening with
yellow-amber lights and damp clothes
are the theatre of the windscreen birdsong;
Zahoom, maheep.
We move towards a strawberry light
as smaller globes race past in pairs
ignoring the metronome to nothing;
Zahoom, maheep.
An intimacy of bass-alto duet,
over fogged diesel cage and phone meeps
gathers passengers to pause the storm;
Zahoom, maheep.
Business ladies and student men
share soaked and tired minds
and seep fabric vapours from the past;
Zahoom, maheep.
The after school music practice of piano tricks,
and violins mis-bowing, the sticky resin
coats the charcoal on my hand;
Zahoom, maheep.
I am in class four again with Miss Teacher
and the autumn fatigue of the late trip home,
a dry child on a bus of damp adults.
Zahoom, maheep.
Manly feline
Purr, baby
Thank you for a second birthday
Purr, baby
I didn't know my legs could feel that way
Purr, baby
Without any words it's all been told
Purr, baby
Thanks to you, I don't feel the cold
Bless me in your soul
And forget about the time
Wrap your tail around me
My adorable, manly feline
Purr, baby
Thank you for playing no little game
Purr, baby
May be in a minute I'll remember my name
Purr, baby
Charm and strength and quietly brave
Purr, baby
Delicate smiles of whatever I gave
Bless me in your soul
And forget about the time
Wrap your tail around me
My devoted, manly feline
Purr, baby
Fur in the moonlight every now and then
Purr, baby
And misbehave with a capital “m”
Purr, baby
Sandy lion golden tiger roar
Purr, baby
Richer panther twilight perfect paw.
Bless me in your soul
And forget about the time
Wrap your tail around me
My eternal, manly feline
Advertisement break 2
Triple mono fruit memotides
in a nano-hedron complex
of hydro-penta-hadron-fluid
to remove excess zammeet oil
weakened by the sun's toclophlane rays
and the daily build up camogradon particles
that make skin appear dull and lifeless;
the beauty regime,
because you're insecure and ageing.
Gene Anthony Ray
Remember his name; Gene Anthony Ray,
and the smiling face of his dance
breaking through the glass walls in
people's homes and their minds.
Remember his style of fire and spikes,
reaching for the state of vanishing
beyond feet and leg warmers, to forget
himself by any movement necessary.
Remember his character, and echo of truth
that harmonically struck
from dancer to dancer to person to pain
and the price that musicality cost.
Wandy Ahole
The jury's back in, dragging their feet on the carpet;
Andy Warhol is a sham, a fraud, a dead con-artist.
Warhol art is a commodity to be branded, boxed and sold;
labelled as art because it generates a high amount of gold.
Two dimensional saleable pieces of monumental tedium;
that is the quality of art that is rightly Warholian.
His bastard children, themselves of comic interest,
have continued his proverbial wank to their very best.
Damien Hirst timidly serves up fish, fish, fish, and meat
because it is only art when it bleeds, dies and sits.
Unshockingly grey pieces of cowardly hesitation;
that is the quality of art that is obviously Hirstation.
Tracey Emin sews and shows an exploration inside her;
instead of emotional truth is a eulogy to her vagina.
Piss-poor examination of grotty self-absorbed idiocy;
that is the quality of art that is evidently Eminnery.
The other doll-playing kids and bucket fool brats
do not concern me or you or the purpose of this rant.
The con-art is responsible for an annual travesty,
a name-smearing prize awarded by a fuckwit committee.
I'm talking of The Turner Prize, the art world's sick game
where money and concepts shit on a great painter's name,
where talent, beauty and truth are words never spoken
in case the con-artists’ spell is irrevocably broken.
Therefore I suggest The Turner Prize be called - quite freely -
The Annual Warholian Award for Hirstation and Eminnery.
Ghandi Bovine
With his coffee gaze and graduate strut
Ghandi Bovine announces himself with charm
and beams to fresh young minds
breezing through the doors of knowledge.
Hushing a polite edict to off-indie music
the mad hair pushes coffee around nervous hands
to keep them cigarettes from glowing
against his blood milk-iced eyes.
By the gumming boards and bladed telephones
Ghandi Bovine massages late foetal thoughts,
pointing fresher faces to the neon screen
to have a go at tapping for fun
and banish sprites for another hour.
Ribbons of experiment and reportage
fall around with a mathematician's precision
in a skipping mannered style.
Stumbled dawn words of the virgin typist
are collated below skin-tight piercings
and distract from a cat suit and Mr. Spoons' dance.
The rooms and halls Ghandi Bovine mastered
patrolled out the merchant bankers with their
embarrassing ambitions and clipped thoughts,
keeping the desks clean from boys’ club dirge.
Quietly borrowed flair from Hondoot
and the temper of fanatical kindrids
around Ghandi Bovine - Master of Science and Arts -
helped a bad crop of months worth not forgetting.
Caspy Waaspy
Hello pooch.
Woof-woof-woof!
Was there some man at the door?
Aaaaarrrroooou!
Did you check?
Nitshh sh!
Could you not sit there
to scratch away damp fur?
Wharrr harrr ot!
Yes you are, yes you are.
Woof-woof!
Your biscuit is there, Caspy.
Aww it’s broken in two.
Krauou krauan.
Krun.
Do you wanna go walkies now?
Knock-knock-bang!
Woof! Woof-woof!
Caspy! No! Don’t even
Woof-woof woof!
In there! Yes, follow the finger.
Nitsh. Arouf!
I know, Caspy Waaspy, I know.
Aarou-rou-rou!
The caves
I’m sliding again
can’t feel my self again
can’t see all around me
there is only woollen brace around me
help me
I’m inching down the comfort hill
and getting cold snaps again
shaking again;
both padded arms take the pain, father,
take it now so I can find my self again
try to sleep again
not shiver for one night.
The caves beneath my ear
hold the sea away with warm winds
over stone tree mornings.
Hot out of the breakfast mug
foggy evening sulphur
dries the lathe splinters
gripping on to the spiky wool –
that is thicker than a mattress –
and losing against a tidal volume
of dramatic adult hours
and numbing limbs in thin socks.
Both arms steady and warm
and take the chill, father,
take the frost from inside
with a grabbing shuffle
and clamp this stone
where the colour of the night
meets the spirit of fire
above the canvas flower mountain
above the caves beneath my ear.
The Litany
For all the small infinite questions I can raise about silly and heavy subjects,
I am free of you.
For the joy of burning in the fire of life and seeking out the sweet indulgences of existence,
I am free of you.
For the ability to embrace humanity with clarity, fascination, and caution,
I am free of you.
For the knowledge I can explore without fear and follow to my own satisfaction,
I am free of you.
For the quest to find truth and peace in partnership across reality, in whatever form it manifests,
I am free of you.
For the men I can love with wobbly reasons and willing insanity, who can love me back if they wish,
I am free of you.
For the industry I concentrate on improving this life instead of sweating over the next life,
I am free of you.
For the slim false comfort I am spared in my old age and the tawdry sales representative who will not listen to me,
I am free of you.
For the light of science to warm deep into my soul and brighten my eyes with the greatest wonders,
I am free of you.
For the brilliance of criminal justice, the ingenuity of medicine and the sophistication of modern civilization,
I am free of you.
For the desire to lead by example and explain this sound path using contemporary, vernacular language,
I am free of you.
For the happiness in liberalism and the endless advantages of leaving everyone alone to make up their own minds,
I am free of you.
For the myriad of pleasures I can enjoy in all of art and the time I can waste thinking about them afterwards,
I am free of you.
For all my life, in which you have no say, now and forever,
I am free of you.
Prime Minister Liar
The man is a cunt.
The man is a cunt.
The man is a cunt.
The man is, a cunt.
The man is a cunt.
The man, is, a cunt.
The man is a cunt.
The man is a cunt.
The man is a cunt.
The man is: a cunt.
Advertisement break 3
A happy place of menacing good.
A shiny waste of lunchtime mood.
A hardening dollop on many streets.
A lazy moment in a busy week.
Fast and cheap and now.
Processed, squelched, on special;
where’s the nutrition?
Limping energy on plastic trays.
Smells like food, could be clay.
Heated quick to the superhot,
Burning out the hunger stop.
Fat, fat, slime, fat, slime,
(no low fat healthy option this time).
Try not to savour, swallow quick;
Are you really loving it?
Quantum of solace
The air is bird sweet and dry,
too merry for autumn, too calm;
all the animal scents and sounds
are cordoned behind cut grass, buses,
and that damn French perfume
on that damn happy male – trot faster!
This is winter’s eve, the quantum of solace
before happiness in snow and in cheeky ice;
and it’s very bright round here, crisp.
Why does the sun pierce bricks today?
There should be tectonic slate above,
damp perhaps and a little huffing;
this is the time for hibernation, seclusion,
gestation, isolation and introversion.
Move faster sunshine – prove Einstein wrong –
and zip down pass the horizon and stay there.
It hasn’t happened, but feels like
every bad memory has chipped in to the mix
of the grappling repeating disharmony
of clammy, cheery, happy families
forcing me to listen,
without the chance to wash thoroughly.