Ghost Trails of Silence.
You're aware of the sound,
stand in an empty room,
and one small move echoes,
bit like Cyclops hammering your head.
The room's not carpeted,
or for that matter walls covered,
barren to it's wooden core,
and still Cyclops resounds.
You change to a concrete bunker,
and the sound (if any) is muted beyond belief,
except the earthquake boom of Thor's Warhammer
heavily tapping on the roof.
Cracks appear in sound rooms
as force leads to decay,
been going on that way since before the Christians
boomed their way into others lives.
Christ it was loud!
Now I near my own silence,
when both voice and keyboard no longer sing,
and wonder if Thor, Cyclops,
or Jesus will take my noisy carcass.
Albert Einstein meets Stanley Kubrick for dinner
The dog under the table growled,
a kind of guttural wolf whistle
that echoed boisterously
amongst the gathered throng.
Albert scratched his scrotum
always did when guests came.
The carpet was stained red
from copious tinkling of champagne glasses
full to the brim with Pinot Noir.
The movie on the background TV
was a rerun - A Clockwork Orange,
I wanna be a Lighthouse Keeper
tinkles across the masses gathered
at another pre-eminent dinner group.
There were two empty chairs,
in 1997 there always was two missing
seemed to be the order of the day.
After dinner, Monty Python in all it's regalia
played lampoon games
just to see the resultant quizzical looks
and there were always many, right?
Albert's corpse sat stone still
while Kubrick thought up another massive blockbuster
about dead patrons and barking dogs;
Beethoven’s Ninth played on.
Opus in G, O, and E.
Stage centre
the spot illuminates
a figure - supine
drops rose petals to a stage azure
In the dress circle
a man gropes his girlfriend
in asylum darkness
moves her G major
to the pulse of the orchestral pit
The movement on the podium
switches to E
male swan floats into view
dogs howl in an alley nearby
drowned by violins
and a ladies moan
Pastel pink dashes
swanlike
across a woodlands scene
the stage fills
with dancers swaying
to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake
the air is orgasm
behind a spotlight
a stage hand sees
the minuet of O Major
in the circle
sends a shard of white hot light
into the closed eyes
thine lovers -
the noise is horrendous now
viola scratching innuendo
the Cello strumming
the Kettle drum pounding out
the movement of a hand
between two parted thighs
dancers swirl white chiffon
cremation of love
burnt offerings of taffeta
to smooth
the passage
of lust.
Was that a dog barking?
or the gasp of an orgasm
cheated from the lead dancer
was it the audience applauding
the stage movement
or the circle climax -
was that a night of the opera
or Swan Lake
garnered with Purple fissures.
Love poetry is written
with a spotlight centred
stage left dress circle
stage right
dying swan
and in the curtain fall
applause
for another night
where entertainment
surreal
is garnered.
