‘… I and my fellow animal-creatures down here in the
swamp are as closely related to the extraterrestrials
over your heads as the rats to the stars and beyond…’
– Dory Previn, Bog–Trotter
Charred remains twist,
higgledy-piggledy,
rustling cold in the grate.
Early morning wind,
that blew away the rain,
blows charcoal paper over.
Your face stares out
from the ash,
eyes a photocopy grey.
Burnt out poems,
rewritten songs
are gone…
•
The record clicks
over and over and over
needling your memory.
Somewhere in the street
someone is playing
your song.
Down here
in the swamp of the city
a guitarist – out of tune.
Down here
in the sunshine city
a madman – out of bounds
The messages
are coming through
clear as day begins.
•
You are calm –
no more faces to burn
in those crystal eyes.
No more words
running around
looking for each other.
No more guitars
in your head
echoing in the distance.
•
Dawn stakes its claim
on the sky.
You are an upturned face
in a dim lit window
close to the place where
the bogeyman lives…
A shadow of yourself
that we have locked away.
•
You send letters
and write poems;
compose more songs:
lucid moments
in a galaxy
of madness –
your telescope eyes
two black holes
in space.
•
Music and graffiti. Blood-filled rooms.
Faded newsprint photos
stay frozen in the mind.
Sometimes there is madness in the air,
sometimes there are guitar sounds
needling the memory of the sunshine city.
Today a burst of static disrupts the music;
it ends with a gentle hiss of despair
and noise. Fading feedback. Silence.
Down here in the swamp of the city
the messages are coming through.
You’re just a shadow of ourselves.
© Rupert M Loydell
This poem was first commissioned for the first Bath Literature Festival
as a response to Charles Manson, one of the personalities featured in
Billy Jenkins’ musical suite Entertainment USA. It was later performed
on BBC Radio 2 and published in Entertainment USA: The Poems.