SLUGGING IT OUT

i lie flat on my stomach
prostrate on the garden lawn
the evening perches on a perfect cusp
between warm and cool
little breezes skip playfully over the hedges
replenishing the still air
my eyes hover inches above a carpet of clover
arms by my sides
slowly i raise my chin above the mat
lift my toes off the ground
feel the pleasant tension in my abominables
my chin strains higher
stretching my abs n chest n neck mussels
i hold the pose for as long as i can
then relax
sensing the pleasurable release
but as i lower my chin to the ground
i notice that i am not alone
level with my eyes
a couple of feet away
a slug has begun to make its intrepid way across the clover
spurning the safety of its shady flower bed
perhaps its goal is the succulent green leaves
sprouting from the far side of the oval lawn
i am its only obstacle
a mountainous impasse
a considerable inconvenience to my slug friend
who slithers slowly forward
until we are practically eyeball to eyeball
a slug's eye view of the world!
never before have i examined a slug so up close n personal
it is a couple of inches in length
chocolate brown in colour
with a paler orangey underbelly
its two sets of antennae wave around manically
is it a boy or a girl?
a hermaphrodite?
how does one check the sex of a slug?
funny how i've always had a certain empathy with snails
but precious little with slugs
i wonder whether they are biologically different
apart from the obvious
snails always seem so fragile
their houses so crushable
slugs?
just slimy and rather ugly
fit for nothing better than to be snipped in half
by the gardener's shears
but today i have respect for the slug's predicament
after some procrastination
and much antennae waving
my new pal abruptly turns tail
and heads back towards the flower bed
from whence it came
as for me
i roll over onto my back
in a very unsluglike way
and rock gently backwards into a shoulderstand
the blood rushes to my head
a different perspective
no clover
no slugs
just my feet
silhouetted against the vanilla sky
now i am sitting at the escape hatch
my legs dangling out of the aeroplane
i launch myself into the void
without a parachute
falling
falling
falling
a shape flashes past
a seagull's wings edged in golden sunlight
then
nothing
only
the
onrushing
clouds

AROUND THE BLOCK

i sit down once more at my argos computer desk
in the poky L-shaped box room
filled with too much stuff
unhinged cupboards
overburdened shelving
overstuffed bookcase
a big fat laser printer perched on a cheap coffee table
mischellaneous guitars n pedals scattered around
a dusty keyboard with plastic ivories that never get tinkled
a wobbly music stand
an ungainly mike stand
little containers of keys n coins n busynesscards
walls covered in flyers n postcards n maps n legends
all the clutter i am destined to live with
i sit down and begin to write
a rite to perform
a wright ready to put the world to rights?
or maybe write a few wrongs
but what do i write?
sometimes it aint so easy writing to order
writing to earn one's blogging crust
a crust paid for by you dear readers
who keep me in blogging clover
you who earn me my online commission
you might not have realised
but i get a pound for every art of living hit
another pound for a hit to my fireseed profile
(a quick click on the pink all-seeing eye)
a fiver whenever you hang around here
for more than a desultory couple of seconds
(on the assumption that you're actually reading the aol
rather than searching for porn or online betting or something)
ten quid if you leave a comment
a ten quid bonus if one of my little posties gets five comments
unfortunately like winning the lottery
this is a once in a blue mooner
[ed: never say never]
fireseed:who asked you?
i'll say whatever i want
it's my blogge!
so writing to order
is it a skill?
a knack?
a walk in the park?
well
i'd say the 10% inspiration 90% perspiration motto
holds pretty true
sometimes ya gotta work hard to summon the muse
sometimes ya gotta defy the muse
[muse: i will not be defied]
wanna bet baby?
i guess there are blogs and there are blogs
it's like writing a song
oftentimes i sit down with a preconceived idea
a bee in my bonnet
at least a title
ready to bang out a cyber soliloquy
and i'm away
composing
improvising
often rambling
usually editing
then there's the other times
when i'll sit down with nothing to say
like sharing a park bench
with a complete stranger
'mmm...what nice/awful weather we're having'
no inspiration
no motivation
not an original thought in my head
to be honest this can be a little scary
the weight of expectation
pushing down on fireseede's narrow shoulders
[muse] nothing to say fireseed?
pull yerself together you egit!
there's a whole universe of inspiration out there
if you'd only bother to open your eyes
just look through any window
what do you see?
fireseed: i thought i told you...
the crucial thing is to avoid making excuses
the worst one being
i aint gonna turn up for blogging today
cos i aint got nothing to say
i'm just gonna roll over and have a lion
'i haven't got where i am today
with that attitude reggie'
cj's right of course
there's always a way of unblocking the flow
if you wanna walk
you gotta get up and make the first step
if you wanna paint
you gotta slap some oil on the canvas
get yer brush dirty
if you wanna songwrite
you gotta start humming
or whistling
or strumming
or tinkling
or tapping out a rhythm
if you wanna blog
you gotta start typing
the rest will come
we are conduits
to a great force
let it do its work
and may the foreskin be with you...

CATHAY

old cathay
slumbering leviathan
awakening giant
inscrutable oriental
yellow peril
one child nation
olympic hostess
cultural revolutionary
market socialist
carbon emissionary
factory of the whirled
now is your moment
as you come to the fore
as you prepare to take centre stage
your red flags fluttering proudly in the breeze
behind the choreography
your preeminence frightens us
your 1.3 billion outnumber us
your eastern promise woos us
your almond eyes seduce us
your staccato tongue confuses us
your elegant calligraphy beguiles us
your human rights and wrongs confound us
your embroidered silk charms us
your peeking duck makes us drool
we see you in stereotype
or is it monotype?
we ignorant westerners
what do we really know of you?

VOX POP

just when i think i've tracked down
pretty much all of the best sixties material
the other day i come across a lil something in the local library
a hollies compilation seedy, dontcha know?
now a couple of things have always put me off the hollies
firstly their name
which conjures up images of pretty boys singing fluff
like the tremeloes or herman's hermits
(for some reason i've always erroneously linked them
with the truly dreadful 'glad all over'
actually by the dave clark five)
and secondly some of their seventies output
which receives most radio play
treacly middle of the road fare like 'the air that i breathe'
and to a lesser extent 'he aint heavy, he's my brother'
which rips off 'the long and winding road'
a mccartney song i've never dug
but to be honest i was largely ignorant
of the boys' mid-60s heyday
when their inhouse songwriting triumvirate
of messrs clarke
graham nash (later of crosby, stills & ... fame)
and tony hicks
really came into their own
now in a lot of ways
this stuff is the antithesis
of classic mid to late sixties stuff like jimi hendrix
rock it definitely ain't
looking for a purple haze?
forget it!
these lads (with the exception of our friend gnash)
weren't into psychedelic drugs
always preferring a pint of ale down the local pub
which eventually caused a fatal rift
between gnasher and the others
however their summer of love output
has many of the trappings of the era
and the more i think about it
these guys had an awful lot in common with the byrds
which makes it all the more mysterious
why it's taken me so long to get into them
for a start there were five of them
like the byrds
instead of the usual beat group quota of four
(the byrds of course weren't a beat group at all)
alan clarke was ironically the gene clark figure
restricted to some of the lead singing duties
and shaking his hips and tambourine
gnasher was analagous to david crosby
his fairly inconsequential rhythm guitar contributions
more than compensated for
by that lovely soaring tenner voice
and how about tony hicks as a young jim mcguinn?
no don't laugh!
easily the most accomplished player in the group
with his jangling twelve-string rickenbacker work
chet atkins licks
and ability to add unusual folk instrumentation
like the dulcimer and banjo
(a bit of a brian jones / george harrison too!)
but the most obvious comparison?
the magical three-part harmonies of course
which surely equal the byrds and surpass even the beatles
of course the analogy with the byrd bros has its limitations
the hollies were never as experimental or iconoclastic
as their transatlantic cousins
the manc boys always followed the trends
rather than being in the vanguard
at heart the hollies were a 'pure pop' group
always on the look out for a catchy song
not particularly worried if someone else had written it
as long as it was memorable
and displayed a remarkable lack of ego
often content to write the b-side
while topping the charts with 'i'm alive'
or 'look through any window'
but as we arrive in the heady climate of the 1966-67 season
that brief 'toppermost of the poppermost' zenith
when dylan, jimi, los beatles
los byrds, los stones, los kinks et al
were churning out brilliance on a daily basis
the hollies also get into their stride
coming up with some fantastic a-sides
it's a difficult choice
but if i have to pick only one
'carrie anne' just eases out its predecessor 'on a carousel'
two catchier pop ditties it is impossible to find
the beatles were doing strawberry fields forever
lucy in the sky
a day in the life
the hollies?
it may have been the spring of 1967
but they just carried on exactly as before
synthesising their 3-minute pop symphonies
so what about carrie anne?
well it kicks off with an unusual calypso intro
guiros and tropical sounding percussion
almost acapella
before diving into the first verse
the subject matter is the classic boy meets girl
but with a twist
as the narrator's sweetheart grows up
she loses interest in him
and sadly goes off the rails
the boy can't understand it
and pines for her
clark, thicks and gnash each sing a verse
in their similar-sounding voices
then everything reaching a climax
in the exquisitely catchy chorus
harmonic nirvana surely attained
as our boys plead in unison:
'hey carrie anne
what's your game now?
can anybody play?'
and we sing joyously along
(never has doing the washing-up been so much fun!)
if you are unmoved by this song
you are made of musical stone
an unusual calypso instrumental played on steel drums
breaks up the choruses
and as if all this is not enough value for your money
our heroes round things off
by chucking in a truly gorgeous 3-part harmony outro
reminiscent of but actually predating
the kinks 'waterloo sunset'
altogether a work of rare beauty
if you haven't heard it
go out and get it
now!

BLOG OF ALL THINGS

a hot sweaty july day
fireseed stays inside in the shade
a productive day of music-making
in the l-shaped box room of a quiet empty house
painstaking work on melancholia
despite the usual technical glitches
(misfiring monitor speakers
interference on the microphone)
and the technical shortcomings of the artiste
(fumbling guitar technique
inability to sing in tune
failure to reach the high notes)
the song and arrangement take shape
(courtesy of countless takes and overdubs)
a ghostly synth fades in
sweeping across the stereo
a calm sad voice gently begins to sing
accompanied by a lone finger-picked acoustic guitar
playing a dear prudence-style descending pattern
falling from d to bee flat
some wistful strings casually float in
then tail off
for the second chorus
a second voice joins the first
now angelic three-part harmonies
are announcing the middle eight
(ya can't beat those harmonies)
along with more wistful strings
in the shortened final verse
the harmonies rise higher
until the last chorus sounds like a bunch of children
then suddenly it's the coda
an ironic cyclic chord progression repeats and fades
this recording is typical of the way i work these days
akin to painting oils on a canvas
or writing on a word processor
i start with a rough arrangement in my head
some but not necessarily all of the lyrics
put down some kind of rhythm track
like sketching an outline in pencil
and then start layering on sound
adding flesh to the bones
applying paint to the canvas with a palate knife
working it in with brush strokes
until i'm satisfied
hopefully it'll be on mice space pretty soon
for your pleasure...

this evening
after the sun has varnished behind the house
i get down to an awesome yoga and meditation session
in the back garden
among the flowers and bees and butterflies
insects crawl on my mat
and i have to be careful not to accidentally crush them
some of them are eager for a piece of me
but i maintain my serenity
ah! the poses feel really good tonight
i even try a few unusual ones
not attempted since the classes in korea
doggy position
one leg stretched straight out backwards from the knee
opposite arm stretched out forwards from the elbow
strange insects buzz by
plump wood pigeons swoop through the sky
heavy-legged bumble bees alight on flowers
it's one of those days
when i suddenly realise i've made a quantum leap forward
how far i've come since the dark days of mid-winter
when i felt so stiff and old
when my weight had ballooned to thirteen stone plus
from eleven and a half in korea
(now it's back down to a healthy twelve and a bit)
one of the wonderful things about yoga
is that the competition is against yourself
i.e. there is no competition
no winning
no losing
no limit to how far one can go or improve
another wonderful thing is the self-control it develops
the mindfulness
i think i'm finally beginning to feel the results of this now
still far from being in control of my emotions
but the mindfulness is starting to act as a check
beginning to intervene in stressful situations
tapping me on the shoulder
and saying 'take it easy old son
and take it easy on him/her too...'

right
that's all folks
tomorrow we're on the subject of perfect pop
until then
nighty night!
f
x

FLASHBACKS

i remember the first time
i tasted tofu
soft white cubes of insipid blancmange
scooped from a dish
belonging to a chap named malcolm
in a kitchen in surry hills
i remember the first time
i saw a swallowtail
catching the sunlight
as it fluttered gently over the walls
of a mediaeval fort in south korea
i remember the first time
i went to primary school
holding my mother's hand tightly
as we walked along audley road
to meet the headmaster
i remember the first time
i kissed a girl
the intoxication
the enveloping darkness
in the back row of the movie theatre
i remember the first time
i read about thermonuclear destruction
some time during the cold war
the shock
the horror
the nightmares
i remember the first time
i saw a human corpse
slowly burning and crumbling
as the bahng lassi kicked in
among the smoke and the ash
on the banks of the ganges in varanasi
i remember the first time
i met my wife
her demureness
her embarrassment
when i thought she was taiwanese
i remember the first time
i cradled hannah elisabeth in my arms
the first time i gazed
at this tiny wrinkled wriggling little creature
gasping for air
drinking in life
wrapped up tight in a white blanket
i remember the first time
i noticed signs of ageing
sensed my impermanence
the day i detected a subtly receding hairline
framed in the mirror
of a nottingham bedroom
how i cried that day
i remember the first time
i heard rem's murmur
bursting from a ghetto blaster
as andy p gavin r n i
walked home along the beach to our campsite
at canet plage
the summer of 1986
i remember the first time
i posted something on this blog
unsure of what to write
how to write it
or who was gonna read it
now how could i forget

ANNIE BURSARY

once more into the breach dear friends
once more
oh my faithful bloggers
you happy few
you band of brothers and sisters
you who loyally follow the torturous meanderings
endure the irritating foibles
of this here blogge
while other men and women lie idle in their beds
oh i wish you well
i take my hat off to your perserverence
i raise my glass to your comradeship
tonight this post i dedicate to you
had i art of living loyalty card to offer you
i would grant it
freely would i bestow art of living nectar points
quench your thirst with art of living ambrosia
furnish you with autographed art of living photographs
exclusive art of living gift vouchers
50% off art of living discounts
(buy one art of living
get one free!)
but a lass i am
a man of limited means
so i can only endeavour to reward your fidelity with:
words of whizzdom
poetic lice sense
multi-storeys
tall tails
stream of conches-ness...

tonight i return to a silent empty house
the woodle and her mum have flown the nest
departed to the land of morning calm
leaving mrs f and i to celebrate 9 yrs of wedded bliss
while six thousand miles apart
i while away an enchanted evening in the botanical gardens
picnicking on the lawn
at an outdoor performance of henry v
as i watch i wonder:
did king tone i find inspiration here for his dodgy dossier?
even as sheikhs-peer's anti-war message
slipped miserably off his radar?

NUMBERS (PART 3)

no-one came to answer the door
larrakin stepped back from the porch
craning his neck for signs of life behind the curtains
after a while he walked round the side of the house
and peered over the fence
'lisa!'
'i'm not interested larrakin
i don't want your money'
'that's not why i'm here
can't i just talk to you?'

since the big draw
one by one
in subtly different ways
larrakin's relationships with people had all changed
looking back
everything seemed so blissfully simple
there had been good stuff and bad stuff
the good times and the fallings out
but there was pretty much a level playing field
a commonality that had glued everyone together
kept everything from unravelling
but now all that had gone
a gulf had opened up between larrakin and the others
a gaping chasm that framed every conversation
every meeting
every interaction
a faultline traced in a long line of zeros
envy

greed

resentment

guilt
emotions that larrakin had barely comprehended before
now loomed large
it was johnno who had hurt him the most
when larrakin mentioned the bungalow by the sea
'no thank you larrakin
i don't want any of your bigshot fucken money!'
johnno's reaction had shaken larrakin
he understood and he didn't understand
he was angry and he was sympathetic
he thought of lisa
she was the one person he hadn't heard from since the draw
it was lisa who had helped him win the money
and it was lisa who would help set him free

'this is totally mad larrakin!'
they trudged across the sand
dragging the heavy sacks behind them
until finally they collapsed out of breath in the twilight
and lay silently watching the rippling sea
'are you really sure you wanna do this?'
'i just want my old life back lisa
i just want things back the way they were
before all the crap came along...'
one by one
they emptied the sacks
tipping the contents into a big pile
'a toast to the good old days!' lisa laughed
they flicked their lighters
and watched the paper flare into flame
lighting up the beach
'to the future!' shouted lisa
'to the future!' echoed larrakin

IN THE NIGHT GARDEN

dusk slowly settles over the gardens like dust
blanketing the sweeping lawns
the rioutous flower borders

the broad-leaved plants

the stocky tree trunks

which all begin to fade imperceptibly

into the all-consuming darkness

courting couples slip quietly away down winding paths

tired children are kissed and carried home
peacocks strut away out of view

the cries of the parakeets tail off
the buzzing of insects becomes fainter
exotic scents mingle in the warm evening air
lavender and orchid
iris and buddleja
frangipani and rhododendron
honey locust
fountains burble away quietly
continuing their murmuring timeless soliloquy
at the edge of a flower border
beside the aviary
beneath the twinkling stars
a curious bronze figure stands motionless
tiny round head perched on a long thin neck
it stares straight ahead unmoving
its wings stunted and malformed

as if the sculptor lost heart or was in a rush

broad spatula-like feet anchor the long spindly legs
suddenly an eye blinks and rotates 360
the creature twitches robotically into life
its turquoise head cautiously turns

it cranes its slender neck
peers suspiciously around
then bending its long wader-like legs
it steps gawkily out of the border
onto the path
and strides jerkily away into the enveloping gloom

COMPOSITION

NUMBERS (PART 2)

the show was set to start
larrakin disdained all the theatrics and studio glitz
but as the big draw was about to begin
he always felt that tight feeling in his stomach
the onset of an adrenaline rush
like standing in the theatre wings just before a performance
larrakin imagined
just then there was a loud knock at the window
'get the tinnies out mate!' johnno grinned as he lolloped through the door
as the cold beer anesthetised the back of their throats
larrakin's mind was elsewhere
back at coogee as an orange sun melted into the horizon
a smooth sea-washed pebble in his hand
as lisa's laughter calmed his protestations
and he stood behind the mark
larrakin tossed a pebble
'11' lisa called out
johnno was saying something in the background
larrakin threw another pebble
'18' lisa laughed over johnno's distant voice
larrakin chucked two more pebbles
they landed almost right next to each other
'22'
'26'
larrakin could vaguely hear johnno swearing
what was he doing there at the beach?
'33'
his last pebble
'44'
'mate! mate! fuck mate! can you hear me?'
johnno's face zoomed into focus
he was shouting at the top of his voice
shaking larrakin's shoulders
staring into his eyes
'yer bloody magic numbers - they came up mate!
they bloody came up!'
larrakin rubbed his eyes as if waking from a dream
and stared at johnno
'you have hit the jackpot, my boy
you have just won yourself fifteen million bucks!'

the phone hadn't stopped ringing
johnno was an effective messenger and news travelled fast
at first it was the familiar faces
digger
surfer mick
lenny
monkey
mum
aunty pat
sis
cousin rich
even rozza finally broke the long silence
but then other calls started coming in
from people larrakin hadn't seen for years
brief messages of congratulations and promises to keep in touch
after a while larrakin turned on the answerphone
he was already starting to feel uneasy
most of the conversations had a phoney tone to them
it was like people were keeping their distance
unsure of what to say
almost as if there had been a family bereavement
rather than larrakin scooping the jackpot
this wasn't how it was meant to be
larrakin thought to himself
despite larrakin's objections
johnno had taken it upon himself
to organise a celebration party at his place
pretty much everyone was there
and a few others besides
mum and sis and aunty pat gave larrakin a big hug
'i hope it makes you happy, son' mum said
'don't forget us!' sis laughed
'i'm already looking forward to that holiday in bali' aunty pat winked
johnno was life and soul
cheerfully furnishing guests with cold tinnies
and topping up everyone's half-empty glasses
larrakin wore a glazed smile
he was starting to feel a bit dazed by the whole thing
now johnno was clinking glasses to propose a toast
'to larrakin' johnno grinned
'to larrakin' the voices chimed in unison

NUMBERS (PART 1)

larrakin had been playing the numbers for years
without ever winning a cent
all of his mates and rellies played
his best pal johnno swore by the numbers
'i tell ya larrakin - i got a feeling
this week is gonna be our lucky week!'
everyone had their own way of choosing the numbers
from the sublime to the ridiculous
rozza always started with the number of women he'd slept with
and then worked upwards and downwards in tens
except lately there wasn't a lot of upwards left
digger had a mini hand-held machine containing the 49 tiny numbered balls
and chose the first six that popped out
johnno openly scorned the others' methods
he didn't consider himself to be superstitious
and refused to dwell on such niceties
always circling six numbers as quickly as possible at random
larrakin was the only one who religiously stuck to the same numbers
11, 18, 22, 26, 33, 44
johnno thought this was hilarious
'you're a superstitious little bugger, ain't ya larrakin!'
'aw leave me alone johnno
they're just me numbers, mate...'
what larrakin didn't tell the others
was where his numbers came from
if truth be told he was too embarrassed
one sunday evening a couple of years back
larrakin had taken lisa down to coogee beach
it had been a balmy early summer's day
and they had sat on the shore eating a picnic
knocking back a few tinnies
staring out over the breakers towards wedding cake island
as the gulls squawked and swooped looking for titbits
and the hazy orange sun slowly melted into the horizon
lisa had suddenly smiled and jumped up
taking a piece of driftwood and drawing a grid in the sand
'what ya doing?' larrakin asked scratching his head
'you'll see' lisa said
'come and help me find some stones'
after they had collected half a dozen small pebbles
lisa drew a mark in the sand and motioned at the grid
'come on larrakin
i'm going to help ya choose some lucky numbers'
'but ya don't even play the mumbers, lis'
'so what? you haven't won anything so far, have you!'
lisa pointed at the sand chessboard
neatly divided into seven rows and columns
crouching down she wrote a one in the top left square
and a forty-nine in the bottom right
'there are yer numbers larrakin
come here and stand behind the mark
are you ready to throw?'
larrakin always smiled to himself when he remembered that evening
standing on coogee beach bathed in orange sunlight
throwing pebbles like a kid
of course the beach numbers had never come up
not even one of them
but there was something special about larrakin's numbers
and he had never changed them since
not long after that evening at coogee
larrakin had been out for a stroll
and accidentally bumped into lisa and rozza
sitting together on a park bench kissing
none of them had said anything
and since that day he hadn't seen or spoken to lisa
though he knew that rozza wasn't seeing her any more...
it was saturday night
and just as he always did
larrakin switched on the big draw...

(tbc)

NIAGARA

we can hear it well before we can see it
like approaching a motorway
at first an almost inaudible background murmur
that slowly loudens into a thundering roar...
the greyhound from toronto drops us on the edge of town
spacious detached houses with overhanging eaves
stand well back from the street
funny black tufty-eared squirrels hop across the expansive lawns
stashing their booty for the winter ahead
as the roar attenuates we turn a corner
and a sweeping curtain of ice hoves into view
a perfectly sculpted white veil
plunging and melting into the river below
a mist of spray hovers high above the disgorged water
blurring the view
softening the brutality
what must the ancients have thought upon seeing this for the first time?
surely they must have believed they had reached the edge of the world?
niagara
niagara
a vision of the edge of the world
the sound of god's wrath and fury...
our passports are stamped as we cross the frontier to the us
a long low bridge straddles the turbulent waters to goat island
hemmed in between the calm serenity of the canadian horseshoe
and the raw violence of the american falls
as we cross the river
we pass a young girl with long hair
dressed in a grey duffel coat
she stands on the bridge staring out over the water
up close
the tumbling torrent is nature in all her raw power
over the centuries
many a daredevil has risked or sacrificed his life
launching himself in a barrel
over this vertigo-inducing precipice...
as we retrace our steps
and recross the bridge from goat island
we suddenly hear the scream of sirens
see the flash of blue lights
as if we have inadvertently stepped into a scene
from a hollywood action movie
a patrol car draws up and a cop gets out
'did ya see a girl on the bridge?'
a girl?
on the bridge?
our minds rewind the action
like a movie camera
spinning back through the scenes
a girl
on the bridge
oh god!
now a middle-aged couple come running up to us
all red-faced and out of breath
'we saw her! we saw her!' the woman says
'she just climbed over the top and jumped!'
the lady seems excited
almost thrilled
like she's just met the president or something...
we walk away
disgusted
inconsolable
we can no more turn back time
than we can turn off the niagara falls
later in my dreams
i see the girl in the duffel coat again
she lies face upwards
eyes closed
long brown hair flowing
floating serenely
just under the surface of the water
as her body slides over the edge of the falls
her serenity is her protection
she lands effortlessly at the bottom
slipping into the foam with barely a ripple
emerging from the fray
and continuing on her way to a new country
to a new life...

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CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

i wake up at the crack of dawn
with a woodle in my bed
a small perfectly-formed five year old
who can't be persuaded to stay just across the room
in her own perfectly servicable little bunk
even on those rare occasions
we can get the woodle off to sleep in her own bed
at some point in the middle of the night
she'll come crawling back in with us
like a puppy
oh i love watching the warm soft sleeping woodle
hands clasped together just like when she was tiny
all puckered up lips
and chipmunk cheeks
funny little snorts and groans
woodly is delicious to snuggle up against
but a lot less fun to sleep next to
on account of her nocturnal performances
which consist of endless tossing and turning
crowding one of us into a tight corner
and culminate in repeated kicking off of the duvet
which is ok for her in her warm pyjamas
but not for me shivering in just my boxer shorts
(cor blimey - secrets of the bedroom!)
apparently in korea it's quite normal
for young children to sleep in their parents' bed
until they are six or seven
i guess i should stop complaining
make the most of this father-daughter closeness
as one day in the future
the woodle will want nothing to do with us at bedtime
and in just a week
woodle and mummy will fly to sk for a month
leaving me with a whole bed to myself
be careful what you wish for...
as woodle and mummy sleep on
i migrate next door to the boxy L-shaped room
that nobody, including me, quite knows what to call any more
back when we were kids it was the play room
during the early musical experiments of my teenage years
it became the music room
a term now fallen into disuse
either the studio or the computer room
usually seems to win out
i sometimes refer to it as the office room
or even laughably as 'my office'
as it houses the desktop massage center
and it's the quietest habitable room in the house
although this fails to take account
of the interloping mrs fireseed
and her habit of installing herself for long periods
not to mention the woodle
who sometimes gets to watch a dvd
watch korean cartoons on the internet
or cover the floor with play-doh...
outside the window onto the street
another chilly july morning dawns
roofs of parked cars are wet with dew
windows of houses are closed tightly shut
the drizzle has held off
but the sky is painted a stubborn grey
welcome to england in high summer
an uncertain collage of overcast skies
showers
windy gusts
and patchy sunshine
the chilly early mornings and evenings
hold the population to ransom
so different from those sweaty korean summers
where dawn and dusk are warm and balmy
and the best time to be out n about
free of the sun's unforgiving glare
and the unremitting daytime humidity
how i used to long for temperate england
be careful what you wish for...
english weather is one thing
that poor mrs f just can't get accustomed to
she sits there disconsolately
permanently wrapped up in longjohns
winter jumper and fleece or coat...
slam!
a car door cuts bluntly through the silence
the day's first commuter has scuttled out of house
and into metal box without me even noticing
he lights up and speeds away
through still slumbering streets
a few sleepy-looking students wander past
lost in dreamy i-pod soundcsapes
it's time for me to unfurl my mat
unfold my limbs
and essay some yoga posies

f
x

KNIVES OUT

CERTAINTY #2

did any of you seeds catch last nite's document tree on c4?
the qur'an by anthony thomas
a rare uninterrupted couple of hours
in front of the goggle box for fireseed
but mmmm...a real eye-opener!
the qur'an
the recitation...
first off i now know where that apostrophy goes
second off i've learnt how to actually pronounce the word
'koor-ahn' rather than 'koo-rahn'
hence the position of the apostrophy...
a few other things i learnt:
the qur'an is the word of god
as dicatated by the angel gabriel to the prophet mohammed
but mohammed never wrote anything down
he memorised what he had been told and passed it on to his scribes
the text of the qur'an has no real beginning, middle, or end
its structure is nonlinear like a web
jesus gets more mentions than mohammed
jesus is believed to be the son of mary but not of god
as distinct from christianity
though he is a prophet
the virgin mary is the most respected woman in the book
abraham is the father of both arab and jewish nations
in fact the qur'an shares much in common
with the torah and old testament
more muslims have been killed by other muslims
in internecine warfare between the sunni and shia factions
than by those of other faiths
the sunni-shia schism is reminiscent
of the catholic-protestant-orthodox divide
sunnis believe each muslim has his own direct relationship with god
while shias believe ordinary people cannot access god directly
but only through an interpreting intermediary
a cleric such as an imam
sunnis allow no visual representation or description of god
shias believe in a divine successor to the prophet mohammed
his son-in-law imam ali who assumed leadership of the faith
the shias accuse the sunnis of falsifying the qur'an
then there are the sufis
the 'whirling dervishes'
explorers of the mystical dimension of islam
saudi arabian islam represents a paradox
although saudis are sunnis
a clerical hierarchy has emerged there known as wahabism
which bears similarity with shia iran
iran has the most per capita executions in the world
including the death penalty for possessing alcohol
nowhere in the qur'an does it say that women must cover their faces
the wording appears to be ambiguous
the role of women
the legitimacy of violence and taking up arms
these both seem open to interpretation
although the qur'an is written in arabic
controversial recent studies by a german scholar called luxenburg
suggest that an understanding of aramaic
the principal language of the middle east at the time of jesus
reveals new meanings of the qur'an previously overlooked
due to various nuances and subtleties of meaning
caused by the presence or absence of punctuation marks
luxenberg has been dismissed as a european orientalist...
all of this and more left my head spinning
what to make of it?
most of the programme's contributors
spoke with utter conviction
it brings us back again to that word 'certainty'
in common with other major belief systems n philosophies
christianity
judiasm
buddhism
the important thing to my mind
as a closing commentator said
is that the qur'an offers not dictums but guidance
it sets out a framework of challenges and choices
that invites us to reflect carefully
to think again
and to keep thinking and questioning
in search of truth
it is a creative companion
it sheds light on a complex world
without such guidance and discipline
we humans can easily go astray
lose connection with morals and values
lose respect for ourselves and others
until anything goes!
an atheistic culture
one that turns its back on this kind of light
is a culture in trouble

A NOBLE BREED

eight thousand years ago
my image decorated the walls of ancient caves
i was the cherished companion of arabian princes
i rode on their camels
wore their lucky charms
was invited to share their nomadic tents
my likeness was etched on the walls of their tombs
i thrilled my masters with my swiftness and grace
the pharaohs rated me first among all beasts
my popularity endured and steadily spread
eastwards through persia
to russia and india
westwards through greece
to imperial rome
and onwards to the shores of britain and ireland
accounts of me grace the pages of the bible
and later the canterbury tales
i was revered and honoured by the saxon kings
i snapped at the tender heels of moorland hares
king canute decreed that no commoner could own me
on pain of severe punishment
king john exchanged a castle to purchase me
my value exceeded that of a serf
and punishment for causing my death was capital
i decorated coats of arms
an enduring sign of purity and ancient lineage
i symbolised power
i represented pageantry and majesty
henry vii adopted me as his standard
i ran for elizabeth i in the sport of queens
i am altogether a noble breed

WEOLEY INTERESTING

history lurks all around
skulking beneath the surface of everyday life
concealed in place name
manifest in building
sketched in ruin
buried under housing estate
reflected in right of way
carved into topography
hiding in tree and pond and hedgerow
flowing through stream and culvert...
i grew up completely unaware
that just a mile down the road
stood a bona fide mediaeval monument
a moated fortified manor house
known as weoley castle
which appeared in the doomsday book in 1086
but has lain in ruins
since the seventeenth century
the site is only open to the modern peasant one day a year
nearby steet names reveal the mediaeval powermongers
former feudal lords and rich merchants
descendents of the norman aristocracy
the de paganels
the de somerys
the jervoises
the bottetourts
rumour has it
that parts of the walls were carted off
to build the nearby pub
the stonehouse arms
an early example of recycling
or rather reusing
a woman demonstrates the food of the era
the hoi polloi of course were pretty much vegetarian
a bowl of peasant pottage
consists of barley, leek and onion
only the posh nobles get a bit of beef mixed in
in feudal times
the peasants waited for their leftovers like dogs
while the nobles scoffed down their grub
lives were nasty, brutish and short
like those of some inner-city kids today
we watch a recreation of a sword fight
two armour-clad knights
sweating it out under some rare summer sun
six hundred years later
some things haven't changed all that much
as i gorp i start thinking
some of that armour might come in useful
out on the mean streets...

LETTER TO THE TIMES

Dear Sirs

It was with dismay that I read Peter Wilbey's article 'Publish and be damned' in The Guardian of Monday July 7, in which he describes how The Times has threatened Media Lens with legal and police action after it posted extracts from an email from Bronwen Maddox on its website without permission and urged readers to respond.

For a number of years, Media Lens, a small, modestly-resourced media watchdog, has held the liberal press to account with unflinching honesty, compassion and integrity, recently winning an award from the Gandhi Foundation. Indeed, in its latest 'media alert', Media Lens was moved to make a strong case for more rigorous and accurate media reporting on Iran precisely because that country is now at risk of potentially catastrophic attack by Western military forces.

Media Lens has always urged its readers to adopt a polite and constructive tone in correspondence with journalists. It is certainly unfortunate that a small number of individuals appear to have ignored that advice on this occasion but surely the newspaper's response is entirely disproportionate: in no way can a few unpleasant emails be balanced against the fate of an entire nation.

I strongly urge The Times to retract its threats towards Media Lens and to concentrate on the serious business of accurate and impartial news coverage. Media Lens has clearly demonstrated that on this occasion The Times has been found wanting.

Yours faithfully

Mr F Seed
Selly Oak
Birmingham

VULTURE CULTURE (FIRESEED ON HIS SOAPBOX)

four young men
lie murdered on the streets of london
in the pools of congealed blood
that poured from their dagger wounds
latterday montagues and capulets
teenage protaganists straight out of westside story
a nation cries out why?
why are these kids knifing each other to death
in modern britain?
politicians wring their hands
and bemoan the absence of fatherly role models
parents demand metal detectors in schools
and stiffer punishments for offenders
youths say they need knives to protect themselves
everyone chants it like a mantra:
'there are no easy fixes'
so what is going on?
it's difficult to make sense of things
when you're in a state of denial
when the truth is too painful to face up to
but i reckon we have some facing up to do
what turns a young man or woman
living in a prosperous western country like ours
into a killer?
what context could possibly nurture these mean streets?
those streets of london paved with gold
one view of culture conceptualises
an almost infinitessimal number of human interactions
many of them brief, remote, second-hand
a word spoken
a meaning conveyed
a look interpreted
a purpose deduced
a nuance gleaned...
gradually
over time and experience
the sum of all these little interactions creates a culture
an accepted or typical way of behaving
a common way of going about things
to act differently
particularly as a youngster
is to risk being shunned
viewed as an oddball
treated as an outcast or an undesirable...
within a mainstream culture
sometimes a counterculture can develop and break away
as did the hippy and radical culture in the late sixties
as the bombs reigned down on vietnam
and hallucinogens became common currency
or sometimes subcultures develop
cultures within a culture...
so what are the characteristics of our cultural mainstream?
what kind of interactions stand out
and what values do they promote to the young?
'two for the price of one...
buy now, pay later...
you ain't nothing without the latest (internet camera psp player mobile phone gizmo)'
message?
all of the following are good:
consumption
greed
obsolescence
throw-away
getting what you want - now!...
'outtatheway motherf***er!'
gangsta rap
hollywood blockbusters
violent computer games
meat-eating
new clear weapons
'bomb saddam and crush the taliban'
message?
brute physical power and violence is not only acceptable
it's cool...
'reach for the stars'
'pop idol'
beckham's perfect pecs and enlarged genetalia
staring at you from a giant billboard
jordan's reconstructed and barely contained boobs
splashed across the front page
message?
celebrity, beauty and fame is the be-all n end-all...
you want uncool in today's britain?
i can offer ya any number of qualities
not generally associated with stabbing someone
thrift
frugality
self-control
self-restraint
humility
compassion
altruism
selflessness
generosity
gentleness
patience
...need i go on?
a moral crisis?
a spiritual vacuum?
you bet boyo!
there's a vulture culture out there
and it's coming to a place near you!

TALENT SCOUT

the lot of a creative
must be a lonely n exhausting one
imagine having to sit there
day in day out
continuously pouring forth original ideas
like a fountainhead
like roald dahl in the shed at the bottom of his garden
tapping out amazing stories on his old olivetti
there may be a few who can do it
the types who can turn the creative muse on and off at will
like a faucet
or who have tapped the wells of unbridled creativity
but what hope for the rest of us?
well i'll let you into a secret, my seedlets
maybe creativity ain't the be-all and end-all
or even the holdall after all
maybe there's a more important aptitude
i'll call it talent scouting...
just think about it
consider one person sitting there generating ideas
just how much inspiration can that one individual have
compared with the whole vast caboodle of human civilization
past n present?
see that's where the talent scout's role comes in
the talent scout is ever alert
always watchful
always with an eye or ear out
for something interesting or useful
the talent scout's antennae are fully functional
the talent scout is lucky
by that i mean prepared for opportunities
a talent scout makes good use of a few simple but crucial tools
for capturing, storing n retrieving ideas:
a small notebook
a dictaphone
a snap camera
a shorthand system
but what kind of talent are we talking about here?
you may well ask
by talent i'm referring to a fragment of potential
however tiny and undeveloped
however unpolished or rough around the edges
talent can be:
a concept
a phrase
a metaphor
a rhyming couplet
a spoonerism
a pallindrome
an axiom
a quotation
a story
a parable
a title
an image
a sound
a texture
a movement
a gesture
a look
a tune
a rhythm
a riff
a refrain
an emotion
a gestalt
an atmosphere
and much else besides
talent can be concrete or abstract
crude or refined
talent can be complete and perfectly formed
a mere spark
a seminal idea
or anything on a continuum in between
my notebook is nearly empty of original thought
but chock full of talent
of course a lot of talent falls by the wayside
just like in life
it's all about the zeitgeist
the right time
the right place
the right people
and the talent to match
take punk rock in new york and london in 1976...
a favourite trick of mine is to borrow chord progressions
once i nicked pretty much the complete chords to a song
not to mention the basic rhythm
(ed: which song was that?
fireseed: now that would be telling!)
i write a completely new melody and lyrics
and publish the song as my own
which of course it essentially was
why did i do that?
because these chords had talent
they demanded an alternative melody
they were just too versatile to limit to one song...
tonight i am listening to a guy on the radio
he did the sound effects for the star wars trilogy
the light sabres
darth vadar's scary breathing
and more recently a load of stuff for wall-e
well he explains how a lot of his sounds are objets trouves
found objects
chance encounters
the thing is
this guy is prepared
he never goes anywhere without a mike n tape machine
so when he hears a sound
befitting a jedi spacecraft changing gear
he is ready and waiting to commit it to tape
he is constantly scouting for talent
so that's what i am
pilferer
pickpocket
common thief
talent scout

CATCH MY DRIFT

a patch of blue
haloed in a golden fleece
breaks courageously through the slate grey cloud
after several weeks of letting go of my focus
of letting it float adrift from its moorings
i struggle to rein it back in
i have made a commitment
i am due to give a business presentation
in the august surroundings of the bmi
(birmingham & midland institute)
the audience is a bit of a mystery
but likely to feature a few fellow starter-uppers
i set up my laptop and get to work
struggling to pull together the threads
of what i want to say to these sceptical strangers
doubtful of my ability to speak from prompts
i script the message word for word
i start with some guidelines:
Simple
Unexpected
Concrete
Credible
Emotional
StorieS
i factor in my two-metre-high banner
which will act as a visual hook
at first i can't see the wood for the trees
but once i get going i get going
for starters
i introduce the simple three-pronged message
which i will be repeating throughout:
save money
help the planet
live better
for the emotional
i toss in a reference to my 40th the day before
linking it to 2043
the year hannah reaches 40
an excuse for showing the photograph
of an innocent little schoolgirl in reception class
the symbol of the future generations
whose fate lies in our hans
for the unexpected
i cite the depressing mounting evidence of cc
and suggest we might as well enjoy what's left
while we can
of course that's a rhetorical device
to argue that there's too much at steak
(just think of hannah's future)
then i ask who is going to take the lead if not us
at this point i want the audience to suggest
the government (wrong)
big corporations (wrong again)
technology (wrong a third time)
no it's us who have to be the change we want to see
then i return to the three-pronged trident
it's a bit of a no-brainer really isn't it
there's just one problem
the maize of contradictory advice can make it difficult
and that's where green b's come in
for advice on reducing the fuel bills
minimising yer environmental impact
leading a healthier more satisfying life
look no further!
here's where i bring in some stories
a quote to add credibility
and some concrete examples
and hey presto
a bit of editing and i'm done
i print the whole thing off
and make it into cards
small and unobtrusive enough to hold in my hand...
the bmi
all wood panelled walls n high ceilings
the weight of history hangs heavy
i arrive sweating from a cross-town bike ride
but the audience is fairly small
and when i stand up to speak
i'm surprisingly calm and assured
it's good having the banner to gesture at
but there's one thing i'm conscious of
i don't know what to do with my free hand
i probably end up waving it around too much
but i get a few laughs
some questions at the end
and when i ask who is going to take the lead if not us
a chap pipes up right on cue with 'the government'
why thank you kind sir!
afterwards a jamaican fellow approaches me
he wants me to come round
to give him a second opinion
on his plans for renovating his place
eureka!
the holy grail
at long last
my first proper customer...

FOCUS

to be effective
you gotta be selective
rather than busy doing nothing
(hannah's current fave song)
focus is the name of the game
stripping things down to the core
and giving that core yer full attention
it's hard to stay focused
in a world where everything is interesting
where the suggestive shape of a cloud
an intriguing snippet of conversation
a waft of exotic scent
the furrowed texture of treebark
a subtle new flavour
each tells a fascinating story
conjuring up its own micro-world
the universe in a grain of sand?
i confess to one of my biggest weaknesses
i can get sidetracked n distracted by almost anything
as time evaporates into the ether
like when i walk into a bookshop
looking for a particular title
and find myself an hour or two later
waylaid in a completely different section
ah this sweet life is a myriad of temptations:
tempting books, magazines and articles to peruse
landscapes n filmscapes to feast the eyes on
radio n tv broadcasts to gobble up
music to transport you to another place
guitars to strum
keyboards to tinkle
songs to write
blogs to post
pictures to paint
food to prepare
fun and games to be had
sweet daughters to play with
sweet wives to play with
sweet lovers to play with
(though not in my case)
campaigns to fight
important letters to write
pressing emails to send
the internet = a full-scale attack on focus
not enough hours in the day
give me 25
and i'll steal an extra couple
i know my scattergun approach to life
sometimes does me no favours
cos in the end
the effective seed
is the selective seed

CERTAINTY

i don't know what to think
i don't know what makes us tick
i don't know the state we're in
i don't know anything
all i'm certain of is my uncertainty

i wrote those lines in seoul back in 2003
and to my mind they're still true more or less
we can all come up with our nice little theories
explaining the nature of the universe
the meaning of life
we can work em up into something fancy
weave stories around them
test em in laboratories
even market them as world religions
or postulate them as scientific laws
but it doesn't make them certainties
or even probabilities
tonight i met a man who blew me away with his certainty
a member of the christian orthodox church
who informed me categorically
that jesus and god are one and the same
that the catholics and the protestants have it all wrong
that there are two types of people
believers and non-believers
that one type will go to heaven
and the other will be damned in hell
that it's their choice and they go willingly
it's all there in black n white in revelation
when i explained that i believed there was something out there
something beyond the everyday human experience
but that i was neither sold on the bible
nor evolution theory
that you could call me agnostic
he shook his head
and smiled sadly at my heretic views
there was no room for doubt in this dude's head
no truck with woolly nonsense about 'something out there'
no time for mystery
nah
this fella had it all completely sussed
all mapped out
not a shadow of doubt
not an ounce of uncertainty
not even a tiny smidgin
110% sure
absolutely categorical...
sometimes it must be nice to feel that way
but other times it must be suffocating
the art of living says: stay alert
don't get complacent
keep questioning
don't rest till you're satisfied
and then still don't rest...
tomorrow: focus

THE ROARING FORTIES

a new era dawns
a new chapter begins
out with the old decade
in with the new one
four zero
forty
40
just a number
just a number?
just a number
a symbol really
like #666
or #007
i guess it matters if ya want it to matter
it might matter to some other people
who want you to behave in a certain way
mature?
middle-aged, anyone?
but it doesn't really matter
at glastonberry
billy bragg addresses the audience
how pleased he is to see so many young people in attendance
by 'young' he says he means under forty
aw come on, billy
try telling that to yer average teenager!
it's all relative
and it's all subjective
i say: you're only as old as the woman you feel
ain't that right, mrs fireseed?!
okay
so certain artificial thresholds are inevitably crossed
i believe i'm now older than the average uk citizen
entering the grey half of a greying population
(does that mean i might soon slip out again?)
i have a different tick box on the market research form
a new category on the motor insurance form
(but hey i don't own a car!)
so time to take stock i guess
where was i a decade ago?
well
in july 98
i was...
single
without childe
(though i had just met mrs fireseed)
living from hand to mouth
renting a cramped studio flat in boringmouth
cruising along without direction
a rather self-centred person in many ways
quite uptight
a bit full of myself
certainly not a particularly happy chappy
only a recent convert to veganism
spiritually shallow
only vaguely in touch with my creative side
only intermittently writing songs
a fully paid-up member of the bewildered herd
still a trusting consumer of 'liberal journalism'
even more innocent and niaive than i am now
if you can believe that!
i had...
a lot of bad habits
misconceptions
issues to deal with
and a whole lot to unlearn...
a decade later
and i reckon i'm starting to make some serious progress
on most fronts
beginning to liberate myself
from the tyranny of the past
so if life indeed does begin at 40
then bring it on!

NO COMPETITION

this afternoon
whim-bull-done ladies' tennis final
the williams sisters pitted against each other
tall elegant elder sibling venus
versus not-quite-so-tall chunky younger sib serena
playing out their intimate sisterly rivalry
before an audience of millions
despite myself i find i'm rooting for venus
daughter number one
but also the underdog according to the commentators
meanwhile brother john's supporting serena of course
our own version of sibling rivalry played out on the couch
venus and i get the rosebowl - yes!
competition
competitiveness
engine of the free market economy
an innate inbuilt human trait
widely regarded as a virtue
in western culture at least
was i competitive when i was growing up?
you bet!
any game was worth playing as long as i won
victorious scrabble matches against my mom, dad n nan
made me feel grown-up and clever
endless monopoly victories chalked up over my neighbourhood pals
built up a superiority complex to be proud of
lost in my private little ego-charged world
i basked in the glory of invented 'gang records'
where i continually triumphed over the other local kids
setting amazing new standards by the week
drunk on self-aggrandisement
on mum's olivetti typewriter
i churned out match reports in the style of the newspapers
documenting my latest heroics at football or cricket
in junior school
we sat in rows of desks according to our test results
cleverest boy next to cleverest girl at the front nearest the door
snaking in boy-girl pairs all the way across the room
to thickest boy and thickest girl
right under teacher's nose
yours truly sat proudly next to brainy tiffany bell
just behind the unassailable richard wood
destined for greatness
in the junior playground
rather than playing footy with my peers
i joined in with my brother's classmates 3 years below me
so that i could be the star
pick the teams
keep the younger kids in a state of suspended awe
you get the picture:
a childhood spent as the proverbial big fish in a small pond
as i got older
of course i started to find it harder to get my own way
or to engineer my superiority against an inferior opponent
university games of squash against rich cannon
were a complete humiliation
chess against chris smith was fun
until he improved his game and started consistently beating me
games of football in london with the foreign students were great
until one day under the westway
we came up against adrian from chile and the south americans
whose technical skill and flair made us look like statues
still i couldn't let it go
if i couldn't be really good at football or guitar playing
or whatever
i wanted to be the best english teacher in the school
the best materials writer
the best teacher trainer
the best manager
which was fine
until somebody better came along
and knocked me off my precarious perch
until at long last i began to see the self-delusion for what it was
the shallow ego-boost
the pride before a fall
the absolute 100% guarantee of eventual disappointment and disillusion
the artificial high
followed my the artificial low
ah humility seeds!
the only chance we have of cultivating genuine happiness
so easy to talk the talk
so hard to walk the walk
yet another string to the bow
of the art of living

THE 4TH OF JULY

born on this morning
on a day way back when
as the nation paid tribute
to her fallen young men
i lost my dear father
before i could walk
like his daddy before him
he never came home
and the day will come
and the day will come

raised as a patriot
brought up to believe
that to die for my country
was all i could achieve
the day i enlisted
my mom was so proud
her boy in the army
not a thief or a coward
and the day will come
and the day will come

sent to the frontline
with my new company
the enemy waiting
for young blood like me
caught in the crossfire
burnt in the flames
add my initials
to the long list of names

my corpse was recovered
sealed up in a bag
packed in a casket
and draped in a flag
accorded full honours
three volley salute
the stripes and the stars
a last bugle tribute
and the day will come
and the day will come

my spirit has left me
my ashes are gone
my deeds now forgotten
but my soul still lives on
it isn't the answer
to do or to die
come lay down your weapons
this fourth of july

and the day will come
and the day will come

IN EXTREMIS

glass
done
berry
been back three days from the somerset levels
and still the experience is swimming around my head
like a whirlpool
how to describe this thing?
how to sum it up?
do it justice?
life-affirming injection of raw energy?
premonition of an apocalyptic post-industrial future?
cultural smorgisbord?
gaping hole in pocket?
it wouldn't be difficult to talk most people out of going
150,000 people wandering around muddy fields in their wellies
swearing and cussing
dragging their piles of stuff
from one side of the site to the other
and back again
negotiating every kind of discarded litter item:
rotting leftovers
lost items of clothing
broken furniture
yesterday's papers
plastic bottles
aluminium cans
paper cups
etcetera etcetera
navigating piles of uncollected binbags
sleeping in poky makeshift canvas houses
peeing and defacating in stinking temporary latrines
queueing at standpipes to refill their water bottles
waiting in long lines for a possibly hot shower
or deciding to go unwashed
snacking on fast food from portable stalls
brushing teeth occasionally
choking on smoke from burnt out campfires
and yet...
at any one time
on one stage or another
a score of artistes are doing their thang
rock groups
folk singers
rappers
djs
dancers
poets
speakers
circus performers
mime artists
cabaret artists
craftspeople
the gifted
the charismatic
the quirky
the hilarious
the inspired
the uninspired
the maudlin
the silly
the fascinating
the tedious
and all the ones in between
crowded house are happy to reel off their 80s hits
neil finn enjoys goading the security staff
amy vinehorse totters around the stage
mumbling incoherently
the hoodoo gurus rock
dave faulkner cracks witty jokes
billy bragg calls calls for solidarity
brothers n sisters
leonard cohen is dapper and humble
joan baez is not particularly humble
but she does an uncanny impersonation of bob
i miss neil diamond stranded in a carpark
i wanna hear more of elbow
glenn tilbrook rips up the junction
ron sexsmith walks off after two songs
andrew morris sings about a prisoner's innocence
hannah cavorts around to goldfrapp's floaty synthsongs
hey! that guy's wearing a manifesto t-shirt
just goes to show that nobody's original!