Pic from Ecite 2009.
I have a lot towrite but I haven’t done it.. and the when I think I do I will forget what I had to write. But now, just so that this kkeps safe, I’m gonna write someone else’s text. From the book The Dance of the voodoo Handbag by Robert Rankin, I poem (I guess) that’s between chapter 3 and 4. The Spurs of the Cockerel
Boy racers pass in large numbers
Waking priests from their reverent slumbers,
Vanish in clouds of blue gasoline
Leaving dark marks where their tyres have been.
Engines that move by the power of ten horses
Occupants altered in shape by G-forces.
Boy racers pass in their white GT’s
With the spurs of the cockerel behind them
Climbers on peaks in the Andes
Dream of the life of the dandies,
Slim cigarettes held in holders of jade
Drag boys who stroll on the glass esplanade,
Cool Coca-Cola in blue-tinted glasses,
Silver decanters and late dinner passes.
Climbers on peaks sit and wonder
With the spursof the cockerel behind them
Crass Latin waiters hold trays up
In clubs where the night person stays up,
News-reading ladies in glittery togs,
Paid baby-sitters look after their dogs,
Cherries that toast in a sea-fire of brandy
Debudantes sipping their apricot shandy.
Crass Latin waiters swear under their breath,
With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.
Brown paper clerics read masses
To herds of the best-tailored Fascists,
Fast people’s custom-made Rolles and Mercs,
White hands that ill disguise tailor-made smirks.
Silk-lined cravats and velvet pray-dos,
Never a glimpse of the old tennis shoes.
Brown paper clerics are playing it safe,
With the spurs of the cockerel above them.
Not that I’m bitter
Not that I understand it, but I think the poems are the best part of the book.
This was my favourite but now when I read them again (only the poems, not the book) I think I have to share couple of others.
Good night and good luck to you all
