With Dynamics and other poems
by
P. J. Dodd
Published by P. J. Dodd on Smashwords.
First edition (2010 ebook edition).
ISBN 9780956479235
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 9780956479228
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Dedication
This book is dedicated in its entirety to my school teachers who were inspirational and insane.
Contents
Sweet Melvin (ode to The South Bank Show)
The intellectual failure of feminism
Connect with P. J. Dodd online
Foreword
I stupidly thought second time around should be a lot easier. This has meant the small pit falls have been avoided only to walk into other small pit falls (cunningly disguised as easier paths to publication). Still, I got here, integrity and sanity intact, with everything in place and on time.
P. J. Dodd, October 2010.
Preface
Well, here we are again. This book of poems has more spit and polish than the last, although whether they have more spit or more polish is a question I leave with you. Some of these poems were almost ready in time for inclusion into the first book Mohawk Man and other poems but they were not done cooking. In taking the decision to continue editing I am happy to have favoured quality over quantity. It is very easy to think more is better, and at the risk of sounding like an old man long before being an old man, that is the folly of young persons’ thinking. The flip side is the danger that continual editing will eventually destroy the nugget of the poem, eroding a memory or thought down to a pathetic spec.
With Dynamics aims to show a rich barrage of words and phrases with enough polish to make a pleasant refinement while still retaining the texture and heat of a fiery core. Drawing upon politics, old age, technology, art, and metropolitan life, With Dynamics presents a series of contemporary poems that describe, provoke, question, and remember the future.
With Dynamics speaks differently than everyone else’s poems. Yes, that means swearing, and humour, and a few new words, just like the last book. There are strong views and honesty in every poem, again.
The title With Dynamics arose from my own tip-toe development as an amateur violinist. For a musician to begin to play with dynamics (different sound levels and qualities) is to register a growth in their abilities, not only to play and listen, but also to learn, and cultivate a sense of possibilities in artistic expression. With Dynamics marks that transition as a poet, bringing a broader range of expression to verse. And no, that is not me on the front cover: I practice with clothes on. Often.
Preface (ebook)
This ebook edition of With Dynamics 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. 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. Big thanks for Nick “Ace Photographer” for his studio space and suffering all my stupid questions. And thank you to those who offered little suggestions and/or engaged in cosy discussions that helped with the creation of this book.
Warned and prepared
Warned and prepared
Hello all and deepest thanks
for that kindly reception.
Please excuse my shaking hands
I’m not used to this attention.
It will be the greatest fun
to speak here to so many,
to rhyme about this and that
in that sweet form: poetry.
The subjects are very wide
from wild cats to politics.
I tell the truth as I see it:
large views, little sarcastic.
I point out fools in my gaze –
I yell cunt when it’s called for.
Yes I swear a bit, of course,
we’re all adults after all.
I’ll destroy any obstacle
that blocks the path to the truth.
Beauty, friendships, rhyme and form
and even stanza structure if it means you leave with a strong sense of what I’m talking about, which is more important than getting lost in the medium and the whimsical tedium of word play.
You have been warned and prepared
about all the poems below.
Are you sitting comfortably?
Very good, then here we go.
Mare Boris
Larky bikes –
must have five hundred thousand of those!
With slashy blue bits, er,
good vendor of cycling apparatus,
and serpentine coal handle bars
topped with your softest rubber handles,
feel those warm squidgy grips – ooooh nanny!
I want a row of ten outside every church
and paint the pavement blue of course.
And a row of twenty outside every station,
use up the pavement too, and taxi rank,
London’s plebs, er, citizens,
should be larky on bikes
not taxing or strolling to work.
(They do work, don’t they?)
Well more inside the centre then, ah,
zone one, and zone two, as it’s larks
for everyone on bikes this year.
Offer them to the foreign visitors too
on their way to um, palace and Ben whopper –
a row of thirty outside big stone buildings too,
accessible, yes, heritage.
A token charge for all bikes,
fairness to all those who, ah, work, yes,
as larking isn’t free,
and must be ready for autumn –
nothing like a good sharp cold crack
in the air to get the legs working
the blood around to the, ah, head.
Such fun!
The Thing from Grantham
Grantham’s Thatcher, Bitch Thatcher,
a permanent stain in geography.
The stink that emanates from Grantham
began when that woman became an MP.
Bitch Thatcher, Milk Snatcher,
Euro-phobe and randy free-market whore.
British government rules were rolled back
but on the way she fucked over the poor.
Milk Snatcher, Hand-Bagger,
iron lady of un-turning impunity.
Lizard-faced, politicking, gurning mad-cow,
sticking it out at every photo opportunity.
Hand-Bagger, Margaret Thatcher,
common garden middle class wife.
Ambitious, ruthless, unjust and cruel –
hard to conclude she deserved a full life.
Margaret Thatcher, Baroness Thatcher,
Establishment mind, job, and name.
Consort and courtesan of in-bred elite
and prize winner of Whitehall village games.
Baroness Thatcher, Lady Thatcher,
should I bow? Ha fucking ha.
What I should do to her tart statue
involves spit, piss, paint, eggs and flour.
Lady Thatcher, Grantham’s Thatcher,
shame on her for the scars she made.
Now hurry up and die, old blue,
so all workers can dance on your grave.
Prime Minister Brown
The turd has left high office –
after leaving social justice
and working class affiliations
a very long time ago before tonight.
The turd has thanked the dead
while the living are stranded and starved
hungry for confession and contrition,
or even a heavy egg pelting to his face
from anonymous forgotten workers.
The turd has praised the staff –
his publicity team, his shit stirrers,
his dedicated secretaries, his ass wipers,
his publicly funded party privileged indulgence
of Southerners’ government.
The turd has gone north for good
to the dour, miserable and wet home
he soaks into, day and night,
eager for many whisky afternoons
and no cognitive behaviour therapy.
The turd has resigned and floated away,
but it’s not quite a grand May day
as the smell lingers,
and the posh gits are back.
Oh – shit.
Ode to civil action
A vote in your hand
is a sharp weapon to fight with;
grasp it tight, every time,
and go for all the flakes and flimsies
and all the boring posh boys
and their pasty ideas,
and all the nutters and wastelings
you disagree with.
Spare your favourite candidate
and give them mercy by the cross,
make your choice count clear.
This is only once every four years
at some crusty suit’s discretion
when it thinks you hate it least
and have manageable anger
that won’t matter much.
A vote is only one weapon, one,
sharp and loaned at will,
strong and valid for one day,
loud and lost in the weeks of politicking
diminishing too soon, too easily,
too feeble to calm liberal rage
that does not regulate to the government beat
that cannot fit in with government design
that will not adapt to a government policy.
A vote is a one weapon
always once every four-ish years
mighty and rhythmic
and it is not the regular arsenal required.
Racially ignored
The racial equality commission
says I’m privileged
from birth, through school,
and was awarded both degrees
with only a ceremonial flash of pale skin
to the campus boss,
“Certainly, Sir. With Honours, Sir?”
As if, as fucking if
I would ever play any race card.
The racial equality commission
said I did, all the time, everywhere,
and they will not represent me.
They say I’m White, the majority,
and have all the power
all the money
all the advantages
and I’m directly related to the Queen –
the White’s exclusive benefactor –
who keeps the memory of bad Empire alive
who ignores persistent atonement demands.
The racial equality commission
said her apology will help
her White apology will heal
and wrap an overdue hug around the minorities
the eternal victim minorities
the second-placed minorities
the “Don’t think of us as minorities” minorities
the box ticking middle class minorities
the race card playing minorities
who work in the racial equality commission,
all brothers and sisters in the race industry cartel.
While the peppered working class
are too tired to fight
too stretched to give a shit
about the reports and dribblings
of the class sell outs in the racial equality commission
the coconuts in the racial equality commission
the privileged minorities in the racial equality commission
the self-serving servants in the racial equality commission
with all the power, money and advantages.
“O.B.E., Mister Chairman Sir?
With Knighthood, Mister Chairman Sir?
Need to see your outer blackness,
Mister Chairman Sir, a formality,
you understand?”
Chad was
Darker than an Islamic panic
or the loud flapping Buddhists
was the white manifesto
on the outer brick wall
of the umber ghost factory:
Chad is Jesus Christ God, yep.
A spiritual rebellion from a spray can
declared to commuters
for maximum audience giggles?
Or was it the idle two-finger salute
at the coffin dodgers of a small island race?
Perhaps it was the mural memoriam,
a calm urban rage
for allowing the rapid descent
from golden age productivity
and loyal chapel lifestyle
into cruel blue despair?
Chad’s divine nose and peeking hands
were enshrined on that industrial relic
every day until his stillness alerted
a working class council to hurry through
a repaint – and Chad miraculously re-appeared,
a knockdown – and Chad gloriously moved walls,
a demolition of the entire site
in the name of community cohesion
so every worker could feel employed again
and forget Chad
and how and when and why
a false socialist caring paradise
became a true fascist brutalist desert
continuously run by devout Christians –
wailing faithful faith sufferers,
who didn’t follow Chad.
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Parade queens
We’re parade queens
the poofs of high renown.
We’re parade queens
here to brighten London town.
We’re parade queens
ready to make a squealing sound.
Ooooh, wave hi – you bitch!
You really should be honoured
that we’ve whipped it out today
and gathered all the girls
for our colourful parade.
Now stand aside you plebs –
you straight and narrow fools.
It’s the biggest glitter queer-fest
and we’re stamping on through.
We’re parade queens
homosexuals needing attention.
We’re parade queens
far too talented to mention.
We’re parade queens
and we’re jamming roads and stations.
Ooooh, look at me – you bitch!
Don’t judge us all like that,
you can’t sneer until you’ve tried it
and tasted the sweeter fruits –
you might even find you like it.
Come along and join the fun
be a man and don’t be frightened,
and even if you’ve got a girlfriend
yes of course, you’re still invited.
We’re parade queens
short on clothes and big on ass.
We’re parade queens
see us mince without fuss.
We’re parade queens
and today is all about us.
Ooooh, take my photo – you bitch!
Your drabby shabby streets
are always joyless grey
and spend the year in need
of some proper rainbow gays.
So here us deviants all are,
the finest metropolitan fairies,
among you lower sexuals today –
please bow and call us “your majesties”.
We’re parade queens
and we love to tease and dance.
We’re parade queens
on the cruise while we prance.
We’re parade queens
showing off at half the chance.
Ooooh, respect me – you bitch!
Gay moustache
He had a bushy gay moustache,
but shagged women thoroughly,
in between half-arsed teaching –
the once a week comedy of P.E.
He wasn’t very strong or tall
and far removed from intellectual,
favouring figure hugging clothes
bordering on the homosexual.
Parading and posing in his tracksuit –
the real uniform for a real man!
He often displayed any old gamely trick,
but in fact he was showing off his tan.
With his gorilla arms and legs
and cheesy grin of polished teeth
he wasn’t helping to mould or build,
just wasting one hour of my week.
His narrow definition of sport and life
was excessively white heterosexual
and littered with foul blokey jokes –
who chose him as a role model?
Now it could have been a lot worse,
the sort of nasty Catholic kind.
As it was, he was a lightweight adult
who never got to affect my mind.
Ode to fun cushions
Gods and goddesses of shapely cakes
O fun cushion guardians – please hear.
Softly softly please keep them all,
and if you can, please keep them near.
Keep them warm and smooth and firm
endow them well on all persons nice.
Guard them against the ink and pierce
and free from ravaging ruinous vice.
Make them varied in size and colour
and always on show by confident gallant.
Grant me position to enjoy them well
and chance to offer a honey compliment.
The tourist thing
Go and see the gays.
They’re in the ungated zoo –
see how they stand tightly
in one or two narrow streets
where the neon fizzle glows as sunlight
and the rainbows never fade.
See how they hold coffee
and stand unstraightened
in multi-coloured bars;
some do eat whole meals
and not nibble on dainty nuts.
Watch the gays
in the art of moving without walking;
sashay, mozy, moozie,
swing, waggle, mince.
Some gays don’t wear jeans with leather
and you have to photograph one
with a real, weather-beaten tan,
if you’re willing to visit that place a few times.
You’ve got to see the gays
but after the Norman Tower and pigeons
because the gays don’t do mornings;
strictly come lunch time to post-midnight.
Follow the tinsel sign posts or
the scent of disco nitrate
to find the grotto of the gays
and see men with extensive facial hair
to contrast baby smooth chests –
the gays show it all off!
You can hear the gays –
they talk as well, you know,
about exotic smallness in titbit dances
and distant fashion ephemera in vogue;
and some gays read in public
quietly without moving their lips
like women in hairdressers
and from the same desultory magazines.
Do the tourist thing
and see the gays –
they love the attention,
the spotlight, the diva status;
you can stare at the gays
in the ungated zoo
they put themselves in,
don’t worry, it’s safe and free.
Go and see the gays.
Don’t they look happy?
Baffoo
People melted into pine glass fluorescents
when I saw him at the moving stairs,
saw the light curve down his neck,
oh help me, it’s buzzed and black
and the sharp shirt collar floats below it
around a granite tapered chest.
My arms shook still from laser eyes
connecting through my glasses
and burning parts I never thought
could know the ferocity of man.
He smiles and we are dancing
in the oasis of tinkering commerce,
waltzing with eyebrows and shoulders
in private ways we both feel and enjoy.
I think my wallet has gone
but dare not to break our tempo
and push away poverty
with each twirling pulse.
Baffoo. He walks at me:
floods my eyes with trouser creases
flirting with big feet and
strong neck lines into big lungs,
oh help me, I can’t remember how to look away
and get petal lips and de Milo cheeks
tidal waving towards me
almost at me, on me,
and one dagger from brown eyes
that has me sweating for words;
I’m done in, what’s my name?
and how do I ask for his?
Help, he’s going to speak first
through bouncy castle mango lips
using that serpentine beast for all to see. Oh.
Put it away
Put it away, young man. Put it away!
Now find your place among the task
and work fast in the allotted time.
Upon the comprehensive completion
you can let it gleam in the sunshine.
There is a time and place for that
and this is not the occasion for flirting.
Your noble self requires due care –
it is your soul that needs some stroking.
Put it away, young man. Put it away!
There are lady girlies in the room
and manly boys that deserve respect.
Isn’t it lewd to show that at all
never mind display it on your desk?
Your glowing pride, joy and world wonder
all shiny, bright and well kempt.
We’re all here for higher matters
so be good and do make the attempt.
Put it away, young man. Put it away!
Attention mister flashy vain fool!
Slap! Slap! Now bloody well focus.
We’re not all here to be amused,
this is not an opportunity to poke us.
It does you no credit to be bone idle,
no gold stars for you, young man, today.
Perhaps you could be motivated for once,
perhaps you’d study, if you put it away.
Over 21s
ID please.
Amused moose at open night
fundangoed at the great ignored.
The conquistador sang it dryly
when he drank pepper vodka.
ID please.
The lesbian bondage fiasco
surfed it up on stage.
They rocked, they pushed it,
they got whacked off at midnight,
to the chant of a Muslim crew.
ID please.
A bed of feathers tickled us
on the garden outside the den.
The wet leisure assistant
caged the ferret once more,
and waved velvet to seated leathers.
Thank you. Come again.
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Big Brother is not real
Shit was forcefully pumped into our homes –
the long ten years of Big Brother.
The misfitted entities and cheap celebrities
all oddly suited and bedded to each other.
Obeying, disobeying, shouting, hugging,
and spreading inane, repetitive drivel.
Naked, subjugated, caged and abused,
the willing, tragic, desperate mules.
Non-fame fame and fake scenes,
messed-up fucked-up divas.
Hollow competitions and games,
pretend emotions, and of course – Davina.
Now it’s finally de-commissioned
and the television really needs cleaning
there are no tears or victory cheers,
it was an overdue mercy killing.
Big Brother was no pioneer or blazer
whatever the hacky pundits drone –
a polished twist of old TV tricks,
same old shit pumped into our homes.
Big Brother was never ever real
just a vast money-making exploit.
Be sharp and quickly prepare yourselves
for whatever shit is coming up next.
Sweet Melvin (ode to The South Bank Show)
Ballet, painting, novel, concert,
Sculpture, movie, drama, opera,
Tap-dance, singing, drawing, theatre,
Cartoon, album, poem, symphony.
Art.
Serious about the popular.
Art.
Popular about the serious.
Art.
Curious about the creative ones.
Art.
Talking with the talented ones.
Culture in its maelstromic forms –
restless, provoking and questioning.
Made for education, entertainment, and informing,
missing you South Bank Show, and sweet Melvin.
Local edition
Copy and paste the vox populi.
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Copy and paste yesterday’s weather.
Copy and paste the red-starred letter.
Copy and paste the big coach tragedy.
Copy and paste council press release.
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Copy and paste the campaign’s launch.
Copy and paste granny crusade.
Copy and paste angry pensioners.
Copy and paste angry petition.
Copy and paste council press release.
Copy and paste the annual fandango.
Copy and paste vicar and mayor.
Copy and paste prize winning tart.
Copy and paste the dog and his art.
Copy and paste next week’s events.
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Copy and paste protesting residents.
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Copy and paste nurses and doctors.
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Copy and paste school kids business.
Copy and paste cancer children.
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Copy and paste arrested young men.
Copy and paste committee chairman.
Copy and paste planning permissions.
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Copy and paste the MP’s reply.
Copy and paste the vox populi.
Copy and paste council press release.
Copy and paste to apathy infinity.
Shit syrup
Michael Jackson has ceased performing
so don’t mention the anorexia.
Michael Jackson is no longer touring
so don’t ask where all his income is going.
Michael Jackson is not giving interviews
so don’t investigate the psychosis.
Michael Jackson is unavailable for comment
so don’t remember llamas and the oxygen chamber.
Michael Jackson has no new moves
so don’t think of not moonwalking.
Michael Jackson has left his family
so don’t examine his vicious father.
Michael Jackson is out of the business
so don’t mourn yesterday’s tabloid shit syrup.
Michael Jackson is a saint
so don’t whisper how white he wasn’t.
Michael Jackson has need of a halo polisher
so don’t talk to the paedophile police.
Michael Jackson was a pop music god
so don’t talk about your atheism.
Graffitied female toilets
It’s art, darling,
it says so in the leaflet
written by that clever man
who studied art on TV
and read about art on holiday
serialised by that other clever man
in the clever newspaper
in the one paragraph articles
about the latest art stars
read by the clever people
with clever degrees
and clever mortgages
who all agree
without a whisper of disparity
in a line of chin-stroking contemplation
that this tiled lavatory
and spray paint installation
is this month’s epitome
of the great conceptual leap,
see there in paragraph three,
“Towards an absolute work
of cross-culture practice
in the exploration of ejection
where urine and abstract meet,
at the crossroads of giving
and taking mass reproduction
towards interconnectedness
with street’s kitbox
response to fluidic cycles,
a self-deprecating parody
and declared nuance”,
see that’s italic that bit,
because it’s important art,
it’s what it is, darling,
it’s art, darling.
The intellectual failure of feminism
Me and my wife are equal, a team,
we both work, raise kids, pay bills.
I am a manager in corporate land,
my wife works part-time
Breasts!
Our children are cared for equally.
My wife washes, cooks and cleans
and shops, irons and makes lists
for the weekly
Breasts!
Our wages combine, accounts are joined,
we pool our fiscal resources equally.
My half from wages, shares and bonuses
and my wife’s goes
Breasts!
Legs ooooh!
I wouldn’t call myself a feminist
although my wife and I haven’t talked
about it much and the legacy
of radical women’s
Bored now.
Talent in pop
It’s one more summer festival
For the girl who has heard it all
But she has no sensible reason to go
And her friend keeps whining “So?”
But the quality is nowhere to be seen
Just puppets on a damn big screen
Then a band with a whole lotta mouth
There’s more beauty than that in the south
The headliners cause a raucous frap
But she thinks they are fucking crap