deepundergroundpoetry.com
Tightrope
Taut are the never ending cables,
Grind elevators through time shafts
Balance scrapers to the sky’s tilt,
Feather friendship to staircase
Of red double-decker buses.
Nothing more.....
Than a metaphor whore,
Door-to-door salesman
For GrimReaper.com,
Building suburban cemeteries
To the pedal of London after midnight.
Show me the bones and I may
Write you a double-breasted suit
Angles of Angel Pub
Take wings on camera obscura
Lager lenses just become smaller.
Only thing civil about our service,
Garrison of garrulous secretaries
Emotions forted on lipstick stained napkins.
Madam Tussaude waved across skin
Stretchered waxen Harley Street patients
Carry(ing) On regardless, we left smut in
Sid James smeared glasses, left a crackling
Grin upon the barmaid’s skin.
Weller sweeps the Chapel of Rest
Weeping awhile across the smallest of faces,
The removal van’s final journey is just a jukebox away.
Adieu to the palest painter, chin-chin,
Hwylio'n uchel to the Cockney discotheque.
That, son, is entertainment
Grind elevators through time shafts
Balance scrapers to the sky’s tilt,
Feather friendship to staircase
Of red double-decker buses.
Nothing more.....
Than a metaphor whore,
Door-to-door salesman
For GrimReaper.com,
Building suburban cemeteries
To the pedal of London after midnight.
Show me the bones and I may
Write you a double-breasted suit
Angles of Angel Pub
Take wings on camera obscura
Lager lenses just become smaller.
Only thing civil about our service,
Garrison of garrulous secretaries
Emotions forted on lipstick stained napkins.
Madam Tussaude waved across skin
Stretchered waxen Harley Street patients
Carry(ing) On regardless, we left smut in
Sid James smeared glasses, left a crackling
Grin upon the barmaid’s skin.
Weller sweeps the Chapel of Rest
Weeping awhile across the smallest of faces,
The removal van’s final journey is just a jukebox away.
Adieu to the palest painter, chin-chin,
Hwylio'n uchel to the Cockney discotheque.
That, son, is entertainment
Published 24th Jan 2023
Author's Note
ERULGCT 184. Another one bites the dust, and frankly, it's becoming boring. My Xmas Card list is slimming by the month. That's Entertainment song by The Jam. Hwylio'n uchel = sail loudly.
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likes 7
reading list entries 3
comments 14
reads 161
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
24th Jan 2023 8:09pm
Slam and Jam kinda read
Reminds of Monique teaching hip hop in her day
The things I wanted to do to her ....
Best left unsaid
Maybe over whiskey and chasers that trouble would be revealed ..
BIG LIKE
Reminds of Monique teaching hip hop in her day
The things I wanted to do to her ....
Best left unsaid
Maybe over whiskey and chasers that trouble would be revealed ..
BIG LIKE
24th Jan 2023 11:25pm
Cheers PS. Not sure what's the US equivalent of our Civil Service? Supposed to be our Nation's Saving Grace, but the stories I could tell. Just a shy Welsh boy from a council estate suddenly left in giddy London.
Was Monique French? They say the past is a foreign country, but there are some memory lands I would never revisit. Not even as a tourist.
Was Monique French? They say the past is a foreign country, but there are some memory lands I would never revisit. Not even as a tourist.
24th Jan 2023 11:29pm
Monique is French but I have a feeling she could play any role she wanted back then.
Great poem, you have a way of stirring my mind to other places …
Great poem, you have a way of stirring my mind to other places …
24th Jan 2023 11:11pm
There’s a very British black humour to this that I like. Plus it conveys a real sense of lost time, warm memories, and moving on.
24th Jan 2023 11:27pm
Many thanks Mr R. Glad you saw the black humour. I wish to leave in a blaze of humour and song.
Ironically, the recently deceased is hanging as a ghost in the back. Quite spooky really!
Ironically, the recently deceased is hanging as a ghost in the back. Quite spooky really!
25th Jan 2023 1:37am
As time passes, certain sets of memories are etched into all our senses - the smell of our favorite hangout, the sound of our conversation and laughter and certainly the music we listened to, the tastes of food we ate together, etc. This felt a lot like that kind of memory. You really brought life to your words; a definitely relatable bittersweet read.
25th Jan 2023 11:39am
Diolch yn fawr iawn LG. The memory boat sits in many rivers. There is one song, to this day, I can’t listen to. Someone once called me ‘Forever Yesterday.’ It was meant as an insult, but I was actually quite proud. Lol.
25th Jan 2023 3:06am
This is quite fabulous. haha
To many lines in this that are just too cool!!
It's creative and entertaining to read.
To many lines in this that are just too cool!!
It's creative and entertaining to read.
25th Jan 2023 11:40am
Diolch yn fawr iawn. Been called many things, but never cool. So many thanks Adel :) Genuinely thrilled you found it entertaining. I try to stuff much into my scribbles (prob too much) but do worry if the specific UK references get lost in translation. The Carry On films are so British* and to be frank, are absolutely awful. *I’m Welsh first, British second. Lol
25th Jan 2023 6:19am
Dear R,
I echo all the sentiments of my esteemed poets above. But that closing line and the accompanying photo tie it all together wonderfully. Great piece. H🌷
I echo all the sentiments of my esteemed poets above. But that closing line and the accompanying photo tie it all together wonderfully. Great piece. H🌷
25th Jan 2023 11:41am
Diolch yn fawr iawn H. The deceased was a Mod, so a song by The Jam seemed an appropriate denouement. Died way too young. Calling life entertainment is bitter sweet. The daily (hourly?) soap-opera and happy-sad dramas. Like to think my life is more The Simpsons than Friends. Calling your fellow poets esteemed is really sweet.
26th Jan 2023 1:52am
The above have largely summed my impressions of the write Rob, I love the details and how they convey time, energy, echoes of laughter and raised glasses. Beneath, it feels like a dirge lament, a final farewell eulogy. There's a sweet ache throughout.
Death closes all, but something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done. Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks. The long day wanes, the slow moon climbs, the deep moans round with many voices.
I quoted the entire second half of this poem to my friend Gino as we held up glasses at his bachelor party poker game. A couple of years later, I stood over him, pale and still, and felt him hovering over us.
Death closes all, but something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done. Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks. The long day wanes, the slow moon climbs, the deep moans round with many voices.
I quoted the entire second half of this poem to my friend Gino as we held up glasses at his bachelor party poker game. A couple of years later, I stood over him, pale and still, and felt him hovering over us.
26th Jan 2023 12:39pm
Many thanks my friend. Seemingly, death is almost part of life. I like that Tennyson poem, one of the saddest of all English poets.
I appreciate gallows humour. He was the 1 who stood up in a meeting full of bigwigs and executive types and screamed “I not doing another project with that Welsh c unt. He always ignores my ideas.” They looked shocked. I burst under cracks of laughter. No wonder I never made senior management.
I appreciate gallows humour. He was the 1 who stood up in a meeting full of bigwigs and executive types and screamed “I not doing another project with that Welsh c unt. He always ignores my ideas.” They looked shocked. I burst under cracks of laughter. No wonder I never made senior management.
26th Jan 2023 3:03pm
He sounds like a character, very reminiscent of what my youthful friendships were like, you only capture that kind of dynamic at a certain point in your life, it seems like.
