Poem: Idles when idle

There I was, propped up in bed, a thousand thoughts forming
in the holiday of my head, mask off, headphones on, YouTube,
streaming, dreaming, coming to terms with a recently-deceased aunt
who had trouble breathing. Yes I loved her so, she helped me find sense
in the mess of teenage years, she gave me shelter from the helter
and the skelter of life’s tests, used to tell me: follow your dreams.
Loved her, loved her so, even though she voted Leave.
She’ll never know I’m that close to needing a visa to attend her funeral
in ruled Britannia, God save the Titanic, and all who sink with her.

On the bed was where I met them, mask off, headphones on,
finding sense in a present tense, correct, this is why, this is why
you never see your father cry. Council flats and country piles,
apartments in France – renewed my passport before it turned the blue
they want to make us feel, and act and march in their same shoes.
This is why, this is why, my heart swells with pride, not theirs but mine.
Idles your Colossus is a bridge between my republic and my septic isle,
septic minds, this is why, I point to freedom which is mine,
which is yours, which is ours, it’s called sharing, and it rhymes with caring.

Gone past caring? Don’t give up. Don’t stay down. Get back up.
There I was, propped up on the bed, time for a tea and something on bread.
And there they were, my family, watching The Voice on French TV,
Happily yabbering away in French, and me, in English, bemoaning the lack
of decent tea bags, and the way in which no matter how hard you always work
you’re still broke by the end of the month. Back and forth in two languages,
add Frenglish, Brummie accents, mais, ne t’inquiète pas, pas de problème,
je parle français, oui, avec un accent merdique, c’est pour ça,
c’est pour ça, mon clavier est AZERTY et pas QWERTY.

And this is why, this is why, I love myself and always try
to send the love and give the light, to cry when I like and fight the good fight.
Your tee-shirt, it said: Voltaire. I noticed you wearing it the other day,
got me thinking it did, that tee-shirt, and slogans in general,
Choose Life, Frankie Says, Make Love Not War, #MeToo #Remain, Idles on Tour.
Fudge-packing Crack-smoking Satan-worshipping motherfucker Nirvana,
that I wore on my back in days when my aunty wasn’t a Brexiter.
Wouldn’t mind now: Fairy Remoaning Snowflake Traitor Enemy of the People
see their faces when I tell them I don’t like barriers, and I dream in European.





Poem by the editor. Thanks to Idles.

Poem: The Broken Boat Saloon

Editor’s note: This poem is currently away on a top secret mission and will return later.

Words and art by the editor.

Thanks to a three-masted ship of inspiration:

Sophia Riley-Kobacker ** The History of Emotions Blog ** Everything2: Nick Cave’s Love Song Lecture **


 

Day of the Dead poem: Interlude Idioglossia

“An angel may weep if a twin should die”

Interlude Idioglossia (song of the twins)

Why didya haf to go, haf to go? (an leave me all alowen)
Broken-hearted tempo in the hearth (flames all aglowen)
All alowen, larlarlowen, lowen, lar lar lar.
At the Cut, pockits emty, we saw the bombed buildins
crumble, rumble-rubble, rumbba rub-rub.
Granma died in that house, royt, rumbba rub-rub,
rubbed out, smithereens, so mightily blown-up.
A Pfennig for yer thoughts me dear… Luftwaffe,
Left Bank Francs fer catacombs tours deep under Paris,
leftovers, angovers, a face as lung as Livery Street,
an all the Purple Hearts Mom cud eat –
kept her depression dowen (kept pharmacists in lifestyles
they had growen accustomed to).
Is it jus me, or is it the sadness of everything,
an everyone, everywhere, and all that’s ever been?

 

Bacon, liver, taters, carrots, loose tea, lar lar lar.
(rations is a passion for the nostrils when passin through the yard)
Lollylar, lollylar (cominyar cominyar)
Rememba Trev the horse an Joey the tortuss,
an Dandy dog an Patch the cat?
Them stillborn rabbits buried under Dad’s lawn?
(Sausages grow on trees yer know, lar lar lar)
Shellin peas, wipe yer feet on a doorstep made from a shell,
unexploded, metal, so shiny, merry Christmas from Hell.
Why didya haf to go, haf to go? (an leave me all alowen)
Broken-hearted tempo in the hearth (flames all aglowen)
All alowen, larlarlowen, lowen, lar lar lar.

 

Midland Red, daily bread, We’ll Meet Again, blackbird bye, bye,
Mrs Mills knees-up yellin: ‘Happy New Year’ to a thunderous sky.
Breakin hips, breakin words, breakin backs, breakin vows,
bustin guts, chewin gum, G.I. Joe, nylon stockings, choclit up
to the neck in muck and bullets and lar lar soldier blood.
Mom’s best mate… was seventeen…
gassed herself coz she thought she wasn’t clean.
(Or was it coz she was preggers, like?)
O so beautiful, so beautiful she was,
(an I’d cry her some tears if I had any left)
Is it jus me, or is it the sadness of everything,
an everyone, everywhere, and all that’s ever been?

 

Mom promised us a picnic if we were gud,
an pretty new dresses with matching red huds.
(lar lar lar)
The teacher never cud tell us apart in a munth of Sundys.
But school’s dun with now, royt, so cum out n play,
shake off yer unparalleled sadness
as heavy as a hundred woollen coats soaked by rain,
an the river-lung tears of angels missin their wings.
An hark now, listen to the song o the twins…
Fer the sweetest things may be heard above all storms
of the mightiest wrath (and the sadness of all things).

 

Lar lar lar, I knew you’d be waitin fer me when I came home.
Took ages dint it?
More days than I knew what to do with, if truth be known.
Did you miss me?
Is the Pope Catholic?
These colours, ay, they don’t half look gud. Shall we keep em?
(lar lar lar) to be sure to be sure.
An how many, do you suppose, twins are there in Heaven?
Why sister, dear sister, more than anyone cud imagine!
An now there’s us, together again,
Lollylar, lollylar (cominyar cominyar).


Día de Muertos. November 1st. 2018.

Words and lino cut by the editor.