"hornby" poems
Scribbled in a pre-sex haste
of hormones and awful
music taste,
your name on the back of a receipt
is no way to treat
a one night stand
that you met at the bar;
held hands with in the street;
and subsequently left when
the night became light and neat,
tidied up in a 10am alarm clock
call.
Could’ve waited until
we were both awake,
that way the alcohol would’ve warn off
and we could take this major issue
for what it was-
excitement;
and much anticipation; and placing into
action every lesson learnt from Nick Hornby books,
or pieces of information tucked
deep within our internet bookmark lists.
At least stay until after
Desert Island Discs
next time,
because then buses shall be running
on time, and you won’t have to risk
the public transport roulette table
that spins around this town,
this great noun in the Anglia east.
Now it's the news, and the news
is you've gone. For a moment
I slipped back into a sleepy cement,
making for rough fingers-
that last night made the ascent
up to warmer climates.
And now back to lonelier nights
and Nick Hornby books,
afternoon wake-up calls
from Mum, back home,
asking how to download
the latest Google Chrome.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
i too find the lack of colour in the winter bouquet
demeaning, but with so much colour missing,
i find the remains of colour
much approving, that the remains can be exfoliating,
sharpening on the smithy hoof
in arthur's sneeze for new years'
celebration,
and too the sunlight accompanied
with beer for the encore of uninhibited laughter
at the sorrow of hebrew tonguing
h & a
(turned witty that combination did,
or slapstick the donkey with mel brooks’
gags shaming adolf chaplin; for care of a freudian couch),
as not akin to knitting laughter
but simply with index codices make
vectors and arrows of fingers turned into eyes...
with beer the encore until resolved serious
with a track-list of post hippy reflection:
beginning with 21st schizoid man (+ mirrors),
through *i talk to the wind, epitaph
(+ march of no reason) and tomorrow and tomorrow,
moonchild (+ the dream and the illusion);*
and ending with *the court of the crimson king
(+ return of the fire witch, the dance of the puppets).*
i once made a tape, odd thing in the 21st century
to make tapes for other people with a chance
personal reunion, as based on the novel high
fidelity by nick hornby...
but i did and she said... i walked at 5am through
oxford street emptied by an apocalypse, and the song
epitaph resonated like birdsong.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
when i was young, all i wanted
was to work in record shop,
i involved the nick hornby *high
fidelity* bug / virus and i was all set,
but them the music game changed,
it wasn't tagged as -sony, ******
or some other record company...
but entitled self-,
see the hyphen is historical residue
awareness... but there are a few music
outlets open, the h.m.v. on oxford street,
or the one at romford,
the ****** mega-store where classical
music was caged behind soundproof glass
doors is gone... i guess the owner of the h.m.v.
is a benevolent billionaire philanthropist...
we all know richie branson sent all the artists
to hell and actors to the stratosphere
with income from tubular bells by mike oldfield...
i get that... but what you miss with instant access
is the randomness of waling into a vinyl / sly mercury
(c.d. it has to be more than compact disk,
it has to have a status of a vinyl, it can't remain
an acronym... vinyl.... and... mercury, cosine it's
silver, the end, 80's rule, or rulebook,
brick sized mobile phones, it's part of history,
you ******* tartan yuppies),
well, as divergent as a tangent can be,
all i ever wanted was to imitate the high fidelity
case presented in fictional medium by nick hornby,
never got the chance, did work experience at
Burtons (a clothes outlet), even though
i wanted to sell music... the hamster napster beat me
on the treadmill... never got the fairytale godmother
to wish-blink wish-blink magic pogo stick makeover;
but h.m.v. is still open, and went in and played
the lottery genie, i got https://goo.gl/KdB7oY:
why do you why do you why do you voodoo?
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
I bet that as a child I climbed up many trees
Sometimes in tears running home with cut knees
I’d have played with Dinky toys and Hornby trains
And jumped into puddles after pouring rains.
I bet that as a youth I was petulant and daft
And sailed down a river on a home-made raft
I’d have ridden on my bike for miles and miles
Watching all the steam trains at railway styles.
And on a rugby pitch I’d have felt right in place
Charging down the wing or lying on my face
To clubs I’d have gone for the rhythm and the blues
We’d dance through the night like we’d nothing to lose.
I bet I met a lady who would love me forever
Who’d nurture our children and make us seem clever
She’d always keep me warm on the coldest nights
And be by my side when I get these frights.
I bet these things I’ve written may have all taken place
But the end-game approaches at an ever-quicker pace
I see it is the sort of life someone like me would need
But the memories have faded like an old dried up seed.
©Joe Wilson – I bet…2015
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
The lines of distinction wear thin.
Where does the wave of influence stop and I begin
and where does my own wave begin,
what shore does it hit?
"No man is an island"
said Jon Bon Jovi, in a dream
illustrated by Nick Hornby.
I am no island.
I am no man.
Where does the string end and begin?
everything tangled up in fruitless plans
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 9:32 PM UTC
i can still look into the velvet depths of the night,
whether in forest or perched on a windowsill grazing
my eyes into the night, and still see nothing except myself;
or you should see me walking down for a refill
of ice-cubes listening to ***** & the maytals'* 54-46
that's my number - i know whitey boy albino given
an injection of rhythm, well at least you were given
a creative outlet under the stiff-upper lips of the redcoats,
the jews weren't even told to build the pyramids under ******
you gave us the blues, jazz, and pirate reggae,
what could the ******* jews offer us to compensate the atrocities?
**** all apart from memorable guilt and autobiographies!
oh yeah, and german industrial music, what fun!
ha ha... robo- -boy with alias Kraftwerk.
in my long gone list of artists i forgot to mention
Alpha Blondy & Barrington Levy - high fidelity poetry
by someone not called nick hornby.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC