"dawson" poems
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.
We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom.
We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say.
We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt.
We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
For Basil@Egmont
Old school hotelier, conservationist, mountain man.
Festooning drapes of weeping moss
Hang damply from the trees
Cascading lengths of dripping fern
Bring wetness to your knees
The clutching boughs of gnarled branch
The olive greens and damp
The winding path meanders up
This mountain's rocky ramp
Grey boulders in the river bed
The rush of torrents fast,
The song of falling waters
Plummeting into the past.
The flash of brilliant plumage
A blue kingfisher in a dive
And the tragic death of this field mouse
Means other creatures stay alive.
The mammoth mountain hangs above
The snow is clean and white
The cornice shadow aqua blue
Ridge ice is sunlight bright
The summit wind is blowing hard
The snow is curling round
To recreate a billowed crown
Atop that seaward mound.
A dancing *** is eyeing me,
Impossibly it clings
Inverted from a totara trunk
With rapid flitting wings.
Exploding from it's hiding place
A ponderous pigeon *****
And weaves it's way between the boughs
With noisy wing tip slaps
The magic of this secret place
Is the drama in the air,
The solitude of teeming life
In green-ness everywhere.
The hardness of the freezing night
The harshness of the wind,
The grandeur of it's wilderness
Paints splendor as it's sin.
Taranaki's goblin forest
Is resplendent in it's garb
Of emerald green and turquois-ness
And rugged rocks and shard,
Cascading rivers, waterfalls
In sweeping walls of trees
Where pools of still transparency
Bring you breathless to your knees.
Where Egmont's goblin forest
Will make your spirits sing
And the urge to climb another mile
Will reward you with something
You had not bargained for in visiting
This remote and splendid place,
......It will reward you with a warm,
And knowing smile upon your face.
Marshalg
Dawson Falls Romantic Hotel
Mt. Taranaki
15th September 2008
Dec 10, 2009
Dec 10, 2009 at 8:28 PM UTC
there was a sky show over Sydney this morning and if you are wondering
who was involved, well it was a huge party on jupiter and saturn and i was
the host i sang
hot hot hot and spicy baby
hot hot hot and really spicy baby
yeah nobody does chicken like KFC
and if you are wondering where i am, just go to Sydney and look to the sky
and look up all so high, yeah mate yeah it is so fun
yeah kick the rich snobs up the ***
you see i put this concert on to bring a bit of excitement to this city but you only saw
the lights, i can guarantee that what i say here is what the dead had a finger on
you see here is Slim Dusty with his song
it’s lonesome away from the kindred and all
on a cold sydney morning a view worth seeing
you see the people are fools right on our mother earth
because only the cosmic and the dead knows what went on
you see the barman is waiting for his stock to arrive
and it is mighty hard to get there by get in your car and drive
i told the barman give us methane oh yeah
so we dan enjoy the break in a party with methane
you see the green was the methane spilling all over sydney
but none of it was spilt, here is Robert Palmer with Addicted to love
the lights are on and Sydneym is home and the people are watching
a great light show with loads of great colours that you have ever seen
you see you can’t be seen you can’t be viewed y
you like to think that you are in a wonderful party
with me and slim dusty and many many more and the great smoky dawson
you see you will like to think that you are enjoying yourself and you are
in the way, of being addicted to love
you might as well face it your addicted to love
might as well face if your addicted to love
you might as well face it your addicted to love
oh yeah, the party is on and now here is our song duncan by slim
i would love to have a beer with duncan and he’ll have a beer with me
you see we’ll be good mates forever and we light up a party in the sky of sydney
we drink all over the country, getting ****** as we might do
i would love to have a beer with duncan cause he is our mate
i would love have a beer with baz boy, yeah i would love to have a beer with him
yeah we will drink all over this god forsaken land and in the cosmos, oh yeah mate yeah
drinking is fun with baz boy, yeah drinking is fun oh yeah
yeah i would love to have a beer with bas boy, cause he is our friend
and now here is briano alliano with fly burgers
fly burgers are good enough to eat
fly burgers are such a tasty treat
just catch a blowie between two buttered buns
add some lettuce and tomato and have so much fun
in sydney there is a light show from outer space
it’s really the dead people having the biggest party oh yeseree
a fly will come into dads methane, and totally splash all over him
fly burgers are good enough to eat
fly burgers are such a tasty treat
just catch a blowie before he ruins the party
add some lettuce and tomato
and have so much fun
and now here is whitney houston, ready to party, hardy
oh i wanna dance with somebody
i want to feel the groove with somebody
oh yeah, i wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me
one dance and a spirt of methane to tip all over me
you see the light show looks like it’s so fun, come and cheer on me
and welcome all the dead, you see this is a sign, that just because your dead doesn’t mean
your gone from us oh yeah
i wanna dance with somebody, i wanna feel the heat with somebody
i wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me
and what a party this has turned out to be
right over the sydney sky
sydney sydney sydney oi oi oi
and now that is it, what a fantastic show, we might come back with more party moves on that position over sydney
sydney sydney sydney oi oi oi, and let’s party cosmos
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
It was just one of those days
when the haze of summer had just started to lull the suburbs
into a sticky heat
of grills and lawn mowers
of air conditioning
(everyone pretended not to use it; windows! barked the mothers, windows!)
and the sweat stuck to the brows
of the life guards
napping in the sun
above an empty pool
the Dawson pool.
No one ever swam there
and the lifeguards knew it
those teenagers, sunning themselves lazily on hot days like this
(and the mothers! They complained about the tans. Cancer! the said.
In a way they were right,
but really.)
The waters were clear but the fences were rusted
the diving boards were falling
throwing themselves off the deep end
Katydids
lawnmowers
those lazy days
and the mothers! the constant nagging of soccer moms
lulled around the pool
on the day
Cassandra
took her
last
swim
Her face was like shoe leather
tanned by no fewer than 98 summers spent on porch swings
plodded slowly,
like her feet were considering
every
last
step
this woman presented her 5 dollars to the girl at the gate
(some surprised lifeguard, because, you see, no one ever swam in Dawson pool)
and pushed inside.
Cassandra never left her porch.
and the mothers! how they scolded their children for teasing her
(even though they had done the same thing at that age.
That's how old Cassandra was).
Decades of the suburbs
and push mowers
and world wars
stayed like photograph around her face.
The lifeguards stared.
Cassandra kicked off her flip flops and shrugged off her mumu.
In a pink bathing suit she sank into the water.
The age melted off of her as she danced through the water
graceful
strong
the strokes were slow and deliberate
and the lifeguards watched as she pulled herself from one end of the pool to another and back.
She made 16 rings
remembering her childhood
23 more
for her marriage
and then 60
60 rings!
before she stopped.
60 years old, the year her husband died.
The year she had stopped talking
aside from the hushed prayers in church
but she was talking to him; that didn't count.
60 rings.
And Cassandra just disappeared.
No one found the body
no one found anything
aside from flip flops and a mumu.
The lifeguards were nearly scandalized
for letting Cassandra drown
but soon she went from a news story to a ghost
and the mothers! sniped at their children
for whispering
"Did you here about old Ms. Cassandra?
They say she found God."
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
It was the middle of 7th grade
I had just moved away
My dad called me into the living room
And told me that you were gone
You had gotten into a car accident
Going home from cheerleading practice
You died by the time
The sun rose the next morning
I remember going into the store across the street
Just a few days after I got the news
I went to the register with my snacks
And there was a cup filled with money
It had your cheerleading picture on it
It’s the same picture on your grave now
Your dad was trying to raise money for your funeral
...The one I didn’t go to
I regret that
From the second I met you in 2nd grade
Up until December 22, 2009
You were the one very best friend of mine
Nobody celebrated Christmas that year
There was nothing to celebrate
It’s still hard to think that you’re not actually here
Dawson lost his sister in the car accident
Even though he was in the seat next to you
Your dad lost his daughter in the back seat
Even though you were hit on both of your sides
That’s the first time I really felt loss
You were there one second and then
…you were just gone
I didn’t have multiple best friends
It was just you
In 5 days, you would have been 18
and probably jumping off the walls
Maybe we would have gone roller-skating
Like we did on your 12th birthday
You are my best friend Taylor C.
Not a day goes by
That I don’t want to tell you everything
But I know you’re up there cheering for me
Like you did when were were kinds
5 years with you
Seemed like 5 seconds
But
These 5 years without you
Have seemed more like 50 years
Happy early birthday, Tay
I wish you could have been here
Because, I miss you so much
Every day that you’re not here tears me apart.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
The first time he came into the light
He thought that his eyes had gone,
The sun was shining, ever so bright
With nothing to focus on,
They led him out to sit on a rock
And hacked off his ball and chain,
It took a week of his ticket of leave
Before he could see again.
Richard Dawson, a broken man
Had finally done his time,
He’d spent three years in shovelling coal
In the colony’s first coal mine,
They said it was only his just desserts
For a pocket, picked in the Strand,
And sent him out on a convict ship
To the hell of Van Diemen’s Land.
At first they set him to breaking rocks
For laying the first rough roads,
He worked while tethered in iron chains
That chafed his skin and his bones,
He wasn’t allowed to take a rest
From swinging the pick or axe,
For the guards would follow the line of men
And lay the whip on their backs.
He lost his God and he lost his soul
Or he thought that he had, out there,
Where men were hung as a matter of fact
And nobody seemed to care,
He slaved four years with the other men
But his future was looking bleak,
When he hit a man who was guarding them
He was sent to Saltwater Creek.
If ever there was a hell on earth
It was called Saltwater Creek,
The devil had got in the minds of men
And they formed a barbaric clique.
The cells were buried, were underground,
There wasn’t a spark of light,
And the men were taken out of the mine
When it was dark, at night.
They started before the sun was up,
They finished when it was gone,
Were locked and chained in their pitch dark cells
In a terror that just went on,
And while they were buried and mining coal
They’d think of the old country,
While their judge sat cool in his stately robes
And finished his morning tea.
A man turns into a surly brute
When he’s kicked and cursed, and beat,
But take the sun from his daily run
And his soul admits defeat.
Richard Dawson, later in life
At night, would take to the street,
And never could quite explain to his wife
The Hell of Saltwater Creek.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
The wood room door was opened wide
I closed it firm last night.
I woke at four and felt it's breath
It gave me quite a fright.
I felt it's chilly, gentle breath
Exhaling on my brow
And upright in my skinny bed
Roared "Get thee gone ghost,
**** off now!"
With naked shanks I padded forth
To set and light the fire
Whilst outside in the wilderness
I could hear the specter's ire,
It moved about deliberately,
It stalked outside my room.
I warmed my *** by fires heat
And cursed to dispel doom.
That icy feeling permeates
It reaches to the bone,
It is far to early for a call
Yet there's the ringing phone,
I listen to the vacant hiss,
There's no one there of course
So I bellow forth obscenities
And hang up with a curse.
Old Basil told me of the time
He watched with open mouth
Whilst a faceless man in hounds tooth coat
Glided past him from the south.
The housemaids tell with fear filled eyes
Of depressions on the bed
Where something sat and rested there
Laid down it's weary head.
Except the house was empty then,
Unoccupied by guests.
No cat nor dog nor friendly hog,
Nobody playing jests.
Some nights I walk the corridors
To see what I can see
And I fancy Thomas Dawson's ghost
Is quietly watching me,
For he only shows his bearded face
At the darkest witching hour
And it's usually in the dead of night
To the echo's of the old clock tower
When the mountain looms above the lodge
Enshrouded in the mist,
And the morepork calls its haunting sound
And the snow is moonlight kissed.
Marshalg
Dawson Falls Lodge
TARANAKI,New Zealand.
18th August 2008
- From Watching the Ripples Radiate
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
Being divorced is not very much fun
Two kids, no dad, life on the run
A king-size bed with two pillows
But she’s sleeping alone
On a whim she headed East to the West
The Cowboy convention in Tucson
With her new boots and hat
And old friend Laura Lee, wearing a vest
This Hollywood screenwriter has seen them all
Jive city slickers with cell phones and new cars
It had been so long since she’d really been kissed
Her love life needed a punch, it could not make a fist
Samuel Dawson was born on and still lived on the ranch
He rode fence, chased cattle, is one studley man
With a soft streak as demonstrated by his craft
He works wonders with leather, why it was art
He too was lonely, this singular man
He’d cleaned himself up since his wife went and made other plans
For he had deserved it, so he sat hoping to sell
Wishing he’d find that artesian well
Stop the action, let me set the stage
There he sits at his craftsman’s booth
Underneath the canopy in the hot afternoon sun
Here comes Rebecca meandering along
She lingers and fingers his feathered and leathered strands
He smiles and she notes his mustache and tan
They talk, she will not turn away
Laura Lee shouts, “Let’s get on the way.”
This is where the story begins
One cowboy love that has no end
She’s still a writer on fine TV shows
Sam is the wrangler, whom everyone knows
Loves a lady who fancies parasols
On hot Summer days, who now rides a horse
Who no longer leads a half-finished life
Where western handicraft is everywhere in sight
And their love is on course
Some don’t understand, some don’t want to know
But bridges are built wherever you go
Even on land with no river in sight
When a cowboy finds love he succumbs without fight
The ranch is now located in Southern Cal
The fence he mends is picket, see for yourself
For I know them, and please call me Sam
She’ll be home in a few, I’m her lover man.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
The little towns near Egmont
That nestle on the plains
To gather close the winding roads
The homing trails and lanes,
The little towns near Egmont
That sleep the whole night long
Cooled by the scent of mountain breeze
Lulled by the sea wind’s song.
The little towns near Egmont
Will ever seem to me
Like stars that deck the evening sky
Or isles that dot the sea,
Like beads that sprinkle here and there
On Taranaki’s gown
Like figures in a rich brocade
Of yellow, green and brown.
The little towns near Egmont
Seen through a summer haze
How fair and fresh and free they lie
Beneath the golden days,
Not crowded in deep valley’s,
Not buried in tall trees
But open to the sun, the rain
The starlight and the breeze.
The little towns near Egmont
What busy lives they hold
With happiness and health to keep
Secure from heat and cold,
The comfortable homesteads,
The park like lands so fair
God keep them restful, clean and pure
As Egmont’s snow peak there.
Hanna Hair
Dawson Falls Lodge
Mount Egmont, Taranaki.
January 1926
This poem, hand written and forgotten, was written by a guest of the house, in a thick, ancient tome of comments and articles, secreted in a dusty corner of the beautiful and quaint Dawson Falls Alpine Lodge, nestled comfortably in the dense, high podocarp forest, far up the snow clad slopes of volcanic Mt. Egmont in Taranaki, New Zealand.
From its high vantage point on the mountain looking out toward the curving coastline of the vast Tasman sea, the lodge affords magnificent views of the sparse settlements and farmlands spread widely on the lowland plains before it. By day the smoke rises from farm house chimneys, by night the warm honeyed glow from scattered windows dot like an expanse of fire-flies amidst the velvet blackness extending out to the luminosity of the line of breakers pounding the distant coast.
This delicate work captures the sparse beauty of this magnificent rural place, it further affords a snapshot of that particular era and of the pioneer spirit and rugged endurance of the settlers who made this isolated land home.
Marshalg
Dawson Falls Lodge
26 October 2015
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Lady & Lord Dawson
presumably
lived quite
peacefully,
until one day-
Lady Dawson announced ;
" Forsooth"
Thy Lord Husband
Ti's heavy a heart I bear-
I spied
Thy self without powder or wig,
Not in thy house-
Betwixt an-others arms
Thy Lord Husband
& thy
Scullery Maid in
thy own barn"
Betwixt looks
on thee tempestuous
pocked face
Never rakishly looked to
Thee own Lady
Wife the same
Not
Thee be sad
Thy heart never break
For
Thy love never came.
Marriage of
Thy
Parents wishes
&
Thee inheriting
Thy gain!
Lady & Lord Dawson
" Lived"
Quite
Peacefully.............
(possibly 2 be continued)
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 3:57 AM UTC
Every question pontificated upon deaf ears, ear marked in outer space drifting aimlessly to distant stars, where shadows reign in open hearts that betray our silence in milliseconds
Basic recourse, every letter of every word inscribed in memories of dreams of some joey loves dawson fantasy. the unrequited notation that every syllable betrays my own self-confidence, my duality of existence to live but not to have lived
and so it goes that every question comes with hours upon days of internal self dialogue, over analysis of every gesture, every word, hidden meanings and double speak, that I have to find such betrayal in something as little as a Solemn smile, but the question remains what does it all mean?
Short of action, long of thought, mindless wandering of distant dreams, that one day I may find, Answers, to every question that such expanded diatribes may ease the pain, and mend the wounds, so that my own existentialist facade may crack and wither to dust in the sands of time, to once and for all I may just be another speck of sand wandering aimlessly between the stars, in a shadowless beauty that is my misery, so that every question comes to conclusion with easy, understandable answers
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
i've been awake since 6am
i'm running on two and a half hours of sleep
i've been on the road since 7am
and i'm writing this at 1pm
i'm thinking about greggs sausage rolls
thinking about where i'm going in life
thinking about when this road will end
thinking about slowthai's yugioh cards
thinking about how much i love frank ocean
thinking about how i interpolate milo lyrics to fit my life
though i probably couldn't tell you what his words mean
thinking about how i drift from one person to the next
desperately searching for a new friend to cling to
thinking about why i didn't shave my face
for two weeks i was scared that with a blade in reach
i'd be tempted to slice my throat
if i drowned, would my body float?
thinking about how i should cut my hair
thinking about how i can act cuter
thinking about that coil girlfriend
but maybe i'll go for a boy instead
i burned my mouth on a greggs sausage roll again
so it looks like it's all going to plan
sometimes i view greggs as a temple
and the sausage roll is my zen master
i find solace in cheap british bakeries
just like how i find peace in a black man's philosophies
today i'll get my groceries from the nostrum grocers
and write poems at the apex of my sleepiness
this road is only going one way
and i can't go back to pick up the pieces
so i collect what i can to stitch together a new tapestry
made out of the few remaining pieces of the old me
maybe one day driver will say i have perfect hair
thinking about how excited i am to read tallen's messages on discord
it's nice hearing about his l5r discourse
thinking about how i promised to deliver instrumentals for quetzal
but i never did get started on them
thinking about my friend gabe's new album
and how i wish i had richard dawson's falsetto
and how i wish someone would hug me
but if i admitted that, that'd feel pretty needy of me
i don't know when this road will end
maybe i'm stuck on here forever
immortalised in the asphalt like a dead bird
approach me like you would your dad hanging in trafalgar square
i used to smile in every selfie
now it's a chore to smirk at all
but it ain't all bad
i might make curry on saturday
or maybe i'll make chicken soup
and it'll be better than hers
because i'll make sure to remove the bones
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 5:08 PM UTC
Our Crayola crayons have become blunts and our juices boxes are turning into kegs
Teachers try to pry into our personal lives and relate but every mistake we make they turn into a story to scare the other kids
Every mistake is a new lesson plan or lecture ; It’s scary how much teachers can tease
They ask us how we feel and we say “great” “fine” “awesome” but do they not see the pain on our faces and the war in our hearts?
And every decision we make affects our future because we’re supposed to pick a career in our teens
How do I feel, really?
Pressured and analyzed and hurt because my hearts been broken three different times this year
and I want to know if I’ve grown up enough to hold his hand
because cooties have turned into love and we’re stupid enough to believe it will last
We’re being cast in our on plays because Hollywood was empty of adults who always played 15 year olds because they want us to think we need to look like that
They sell us things we don’t need because we’re too trusting and don’t bother to ask “do I really look like that?”
But, then they go on a mission plan to fight teen suicide and help teens who have turned to drugs to feel something
This is not Dawson Creek or Degrassi
This is the lives of actual people who have feelings and not lines to read
So, please stop covering up your tracks
because when you throw a stone into an ocean, the ripple can (and will) reach many shores
And stop telling me that, at 15, I should be grown up
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
I orchestrate your violent butterflies
Fluttering and morphing into bees with big eyes
"Honey shed your chitin and be mine"
Your guardian angel and savior so divine
The strings of your heart as my violin
My grand concerto hypnotized you to sin
Made me your deity, my boat your place of worship
I welcomed your unholiness aboard my precious ship
Sailed through the clouds and into the stars
Set off on a light-speed expedition to Mars
When we returned to wander the Earth's seas
I found myself a slave to all your pleas
Mistress of this vessel yet so caged and lonely
When did I feed you so much power over me?
She was mine but I didn’t recognize
Tainted and defiled because of my lies
Her body and sails were painted red and blue
To much better suit and satisfy you
Irreverence to your deity, desecration to my shrine
I could only watch while you took all that was mine
A glimpse of land and gardens so close
Sparked a flame of hope in my life of shadows
I sprouted wings and the sun began beaming
Lighting up the rocks where waves were crashing
I raised her sails with one final goal
To free myself and take back my control
With cold confidence, I steadied my helm, directed my bow
Crashed her down like Dawson to Davy in the depths below.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 11:41 PM UTC
I don’t care that my parents don’t
like you, because the way your unruly
blonde-brown hair matches the way your *****
pants sag makes the buttons on my corsets
and 100 button boots pop,
onebyonebyonebyonebyonebyone.
I’ll meet you in the backseat of that Coupe De Ville
in the cargo hold. You can rev my engine,
and leave handprints on
more than just the back window. You can
show me how to spit off the bow of
The Titanic but, I can show
you how I …
I have only known you for one day,
but these last 24 hours have felt like a
lifetime. If for some reason this ship
hits an iceberg or something
and we find ourselves clinging
to half a door lost in debris
THERE WILL BE ROOM FOR TWO.
Jack Dawson,
I will never let you go.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 2:26 PM UTC
the keystone walls melting on on its of gold, taking their glistening edges, spreading all over, the foxes dipping in their hands in the outrage chase, dodging the bulders, putting down the poison that looks like the puddy, passing on the next seed, ears perked up, hunger and pity in the eyes, jesus I speak then I speak too quickly then I don’t speak quickly enough, wanting a few words to help me get through, but find that the words fall then the predictable precedents I’ve set for myself come back in a rush, and those who I at once thought were on my side have been injested, and I have become bigger, and even more confused. The swag is definite, and I have a few directions, then I pull ojn the tabs and suddenly I’m back with some of my pals, hey arnold preaching his word, his riches heir, poetry and padding patty and curly, punching me in the gut, great little suite in a little niche, its the life, what do I compare the next thing to, the abstract seems even more real than any joke falling on an audience, with a dead face that gets a chuckle and the band falls on the downbeat, a dance to distract from the lack of content
where am I coming from? Complete utter confusion, questions upon questions, leading me with no prejudice, missing the sweetness of pre-judgment, how it helped me get through days and dismiss, where is jesus? I’m lucifer, pesticide and bourbon and swanky classes sketching hateful remarks into the desk ******* off professor clawson, sent to the office of vice principal dawson, not the alpha but the cronie who worships, trouble with no proper attention, tar with no high, get used to the asphalt,
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
guess what!, i just found out that john f kennedy died in 1963
and i offer my condolences to you and guess what!
martin luther king died in 1968, i don’t understand but they both died
guess what! mrs baker died and i have no idea who died in the civil war
do you know, know what, who died in the civil war
no, but i can tell you, many people died in the civil war
my reincarnation died in the civil war, learn buddhism
because they will have the answers you will need
guess what! paul berenyi died, that is a shame
i learnt it off the paper back in 1995
guess what! elizabeth montgomery died, and so did agnes moorehead
two TV witches dead, but agnes moorehead became sabrina the teenage witch, ya know melissa joan hart
guess what! richie benaud died, and he is waiting for his next life
you see i have heard about these negative deaths, and i wish you will stop
death isn’t uplifting, it’s negative, ever so negative
i believe in spreading positivity around this world
and talking about these deaths don’t help
we need to keep positive in us, ok, and then he said, guess what
frank sinatra died, but that is a negative thing to say
but i like talking about death, but it’s very negative, ya see, then he said
guess what! robert palmer died, ya know the guy who thought he was simply irreistable into being addicted to love
sure makes your day doesn’t it, she said, no it doesn’t, talking about death is negative, i tell ya
and if you don’t stop talking about death, i will make you next
but guess what! news flash, i like talking about death, i have an uplifting version of death
you see when people die, they come back to life
cause guess what! billy thorpe died, he has been dead for ages, mate, quit talking negative
you need to be positive ya know, you see i will do a giant **** in my living room, i feel lousy
drop the **** in the toilet, feeling much better, you see i can tell you who dies
guess what! trevor barker died, he has been dead for ages, you are a very negative person
guess what! scott mcdonald died, well, you just love being negative
guess what!, christians are kidnappers after your fucken soul, well you are showing me
what happens on youth group, well, i don’t want to know, cause it’s negative, i believe in being a peaceful positive buddhist
people die, they come back to life, people die, they come back to life
you see i go to the phoenix, for the poetry slam, i try and bring back graham kennedy
because guess what! graham kennedy died, i said, mate, he’s been dead for ages
and you mate are being ever so negative, he said, no, death is uplifting, it is uplifting
how you die and then come back to life
guess what! smoky dawson died, but he has been dead for a while
but i saw him at the anzac day march, so television is right yet again
guess what! guess what! guess what! 1 person dies 1 person gets reborn
the circle of life, don’t ya think
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
Slow ride into the black pond
Soot and root echo ruin
Slinging forth pain
She has gone away with the withering dawn
Stopping her silent withdraw
******* fruit with Dawson
Reaping hay in the October harvest
Rings form in her irises
Roles are switched
Rudely drawn wings spring out
Reminding the angels
Rewarding belief
Dunes of gold build up along the ridges
Dried lips soften and rehydrate
Dropping lifeless skin
Divine curvatures are left exposed
Driven off the warm host
Dying in a lonely place
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
I don't know how I met you. Inspired.
It's like you appeared out of the thin air.
Newly created...
I held my own, just barley,
As you looked at me, across your dinner table at mid day or earlier.
Like it was early in the morning even though it wasn't.
Fresh and geeky, tidy and neat, And on a mission!
You smiled, laughed and winced in my general direction.
I answered your questions, one worded like.
You answered mine before I even asked, I was mystified.
You're like a feather, from a native chiefs head dress,
Dipped in ink,
Then blown onto a piece of paper made of pure flexible gold,
Written into existence by divine inscription.
Dawson Creek...
I made a sculpture. Five so far,
I cut my thumb, multiple times on this one, multiple times.
Sorry. To number five and to myself,
Bad skills, bad counter-pressure,
Blood, scars, band-aids.
Blood on five, scars on me,
Pouce Coupe...
Between for me equals the space between,
Between Dawson Creek and Grand Prairie,
Like Pouce Coupe, is "cut thumb", in french.
A mother tongue language of somewhere in me, undiscovered.
English is my Papa tongue, the language of, "let's get things done!"
Both pretty good. One definitely more productive! Go!
Pouce Coupe, the undiscovered middle ground.
A french name for an English town.
Pouce Coupe...
Like this sculpture,
Art from the space between, Like the memory of you,
My "lost" friends,
Memories like driving there and home again.
Through memory lane.
It's like Pouce Coupe, the memory of you.
Like the scar, the cut thumb, the memories good and all my bad.
And somewhere in between I'll meet you all again,
Most likely in "Pouce Coupe".
The unpredictable space between,
Pouce Coupe...
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
The wood room door was opened wide
I closed it firm last night.
I woke at four and felt it's breath
It gave me quite a fright.
I felt it's chilly, gentle breath
Exhaling on my brow
And upright in my skinny bed
Roared "Get thee gone ghost,
**** off now!"
With naked shanks I padded forth
To set and light the fire
Whilst outside in the wilderness
I could hear the specter's ire,
It moved about deliberately,
It stalked outside my room.
I warmed my *** by fires heat
And cursed to dispel doom.
That icy feeling permeates
It reaches to the bone,
It is far to early for a call
Yet there's the ringing phone,
I listen to the vacant hiss,
There's no one there of course
So I bellow forth obscenities
And hang up with a curse.
Old Basil told me of the time
He watched with open mouth
Whilst a faceless man in hounds tooth coat
Glided past him from the south.
The housemaids tell with fear filled eyes
Of depressions on the bed
Where something sat and rested there
Laid down it's weary head.
Except the house was empty then,
Unoccupied by guests.
No cat nor dog nor friendly hog,
Nobody playing jests.
Some nights I walk the corridors
To see what I can see
And I fancy Thomas Dawson's ghost
Is quietly watching me,
For he only shows his bearded face
At the darkest witching hour
And it's usually in the dead of night
To the echo's of the old clock tower
When the mountain looms above the lodge
Enshrouded in the mist,
And the morepork calls its haunting sound
And the snow is moonlight kissed.
Marshalg
Dawson Falls Lodge
TARANAKI,New Zealand.
18th August 2008
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 2:11 PM UTC
Minutes pass into hours
Hours into days
Though my life pass into twilight
I will still dream of the people and places
Of my youth
I dream of endless summers by the river
The smell of fresh water in my hair
Laughing voices in the distance
A giant stone church
It’s steeple standing tall
Sentinel of our sleepy borough
Fresh cut grass
Dirt stains on my clothes
A pleasant ache in all my muscles
After a day of playing ball
A warning siren blows
We all rush off to meet it
Perilous adventure of my youth
Dousing wayward flame
Star filled summer nights
Chasing tiny hand held lights
Mad dashes through the town
The smell of funnel cakes
Brings smiles for miles around
At the annual street fair
Minutes pass into hours
Hours into days
As my life passes into twilight
I long for the freedom and the faces
Of my youth
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 4:35 AM UTC
I've never known a more subtle
Base.
Where thrills were chased
through foggy winter Rain.
Our love, Sparked Dawson's rage.
His ire brewed in Winnebago,
Dark.
As were the night at
Ash Place Park.
Our secret stored
in one neon
Marker;
Waved under the noses
Of those who were
Sharper.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
as kids we used to go out in
the cold holding pretzels
between our fingers and pretend
our frozen breath was smoke
*(funny how
kids grow up)*
we rang in this new year
with a half gallon of last
year's apple cider just turnt
enough to bite and fizz
half glasses of
questionable mango juice
mixed with a stranger's
thick cream ***
and a full season of
mash but after
this year i know
suicide is not painless
*(it burns and stings
chokes and screams
leaves friends
crying at five a.m.)*
stood on some kitchen steps
cat-scratched hands red
from hot dishwater and icy air
stomping cold feet
*(the plan is to get me addicted
for just a couple years while you
*** them off me until i prove
i'm strong enough to quit)*
and you held out the zippo
lighter you got for christmas
i handed you a cigarette
and you held it between your
fingers and tapped away the
ashes like richard dawson would
*(there's something poetic about
historical self destruction)*
it burned my lungs
enough that i coughed
but then again it
felt right
natural
like we had been
practicing for this
new year all our lives.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
Smoky Dawson sings up in the afterlife having fun
At rings of Saturn
I am sitting up here enjoying the night
Having so much fun
You ser every day I float around
Thinking about how to enjoy the day
You see down on earth, I walked around
Doing my every day things, and
In hindsight, man I really enjoyed that
Yes, I was so cool, I had my very own show
Which everyone like so much
And before I left, I marched on Anzac day
In the city of Sydney
But now nothing can happen
I can't suffer from a heart attack
Or stroke, or get robbed by baddies
You see, any robber that comes up here
We just blast then back,
You don't have to listen to protocol here
No, you don't at all
When you want to play cricket
And can't find the ball
You don't need to look further, cause
You just zap it in your hand
You see this club I am in right now
The club called Rings of Saturn
I come here every time I want and
Everyone claps me, oh yeah
I love my cricket and I bought that to Saturn
And it was very fun, yes, oh yeah
Now there is cricket every Sunday night
And sometimes Tuesday as well
So when the cricket is over, yes we all went
To Rings of Saturn or Jupiter Moon
And we'll celebrate like crazy, man
We will have so much fun
See you later, I am Smoky Dawson
You've been wonderful
Bye
Sent from my iPhone
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC
Dr. Bob and the guilty two. In a basket they carry you.
What the river knows, is Saint Anthony. Cleopatra and Moses
Star on Dawson's Creek.
There were silver bells coated with Vaseline last night,
Rayon lights on lips- the clock arm diet, little
Rub-a-Dub, KGB, and No. 4.
This is who we are.
This is how we speak.
Come on over, yea!
Be inside the part of parties.
Come on dressed in bows, boys all dressed in roses.
Candle-light chandelier surprise, we're in the kingdom of the wise.
Talk so cheap its whispered. Instead
Let's get a bit closer. The lean,
A skinny kiss, for another hot-girl in a slim-fitting dress.
Be it yellow or white,
A neon pink design?
My stylist doesn't mind-
We take our clothes off,
So you can get to know us.
Seventy valets, the moon is out in full bloom.
"One more bottle to the living room!"
All the boys they dance, while the girls rub on their pants.
The treasure hunt has began, I can use the map but you can't,
No need to sleep it off, hey! Hey!
The DJ plays through, it's Saturday, hey! Hey!
My bedroom's right this way,
While you get laid, I get paid.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC