"lps" poems
Put on the old LPs tonight, Alex,
from a time long before you were born.
Top of the queue was Petula Clark
belting out Don't Give Up,
defiant as an alley cat in a street fight.
Remembered how in her heyday,
she'd been forced to conceal
the fact that she was married ---
all performers being mysteriously
virginal in those days.
Thoughts segue several years
to my time in the service and
a female lieutenant who was my OIC.
Served a 20 year career,
but never knew a finer officer.
She realized leadership was saying
the things that made you want to follow.
Just after making captain,
due to pregnancy, she was forced
to terminate her service career.
Today, women routinely travel in space,
perform extreme surgeries,
design skyscrappers;
one just might become president.
And somewhere in the tenements of NYC
a young poet spins metaphor
straight from the streets and the cosmos,
constructing a world in lines
we'd all wish to enter.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Lizbeth stood in front
of the tall mirror
inside her mother's wardrobe
she was wearing
a short black dress
her hair was tied
in a bun at the back
I stood watching her
uncertain why
we were in her parents' bedroom
and why she was *********
her mother’s clothes
hanging on hangers inside
I looked around the room
a big bed made tidily
a chest of drawers
a built in cupboard
a picture on the wall
opposite the bed
of some country scene
and above the bed
a huge crucifix
made from wood
with a plaster Christ
look at this one
Lizbeth said
I looked at her hand
taking out a long red dress
she held it up
then put in front of herself
and turned to face me
what do you think?
it's a bit gaudy
I said
shall I try it on?
no I can see
what it would
look like on you
I said
she sniffed it
she must bathe
in **** scent
Lizbeth said
she did a spin
holding the dress
against her
how do I look in it?
she's taller than you
it'll fit her better
I said
not so sure
Lizbeth said
hold this
I held the dress in my hand
she unzipped her black dress
at the back
and pulled the black dress
over her head
and stood there
in a white bra and *******
give it here
she said
and taking the dress
she put it on
her own black dress
was on the floor
here zip me up
at the back
she said
I zipped her up
at the back
watching the straps
of the white bra disappear
as I zipped her up
she turned on the spot
and looked at herself
in the tall mirror
well? how do I look now?
well at least
it's longer
than your own black dress
I said
it came to her ankles
she looked down at it
yes too ****** long
she said
unzip me Benny
she said
I unzipped her
seeing the strap
of the white bra
come back into view
she pulled the dress
over her head
and put it back
on the hanger
she stood there
in bra and *******
how do I look now?
undressed
I said
do you like me
like this?
I feel kind of
uncomfortable
you standing like that
I said
why do you feel
uncomfortable?
what if your parents
come home now
and see you like this
and me here with you
and you in your underclothes?
she smiled
guess they'll feel
uncomfortable then
she said
I picked up her black dress
best out it on
I said
now?
yes now
my parent's bed is over there
all made up and fresh
and waiting for us
she said sexily
I stood holding
the black dress in my hand
where are your parents?
out some place
when will they be back?
don't know
best get your dress on
and out of their room
I said
what about my room?
the bed's smaller
and unmade
and the room's untidy
but we can still
do it there?
I heard voices from downstairs
is that them back?
I said in a low voice
Lizbeth pulled a face
**** me yes
let's get to my room
and so she put
the red dress back
in the wardrobe
and shut it up
and we rushed across
the landing to her room
and shut the door
behind us
I looked around her room
it was as she said
untidy
the bed unmade
books
LPs
soiled washing
over the floor
and the curtains unopened
that was kind of close
she said
yes
I said
downstairs the voices
were loud
and a row seemed
to be going on
but Lizbeth seemed unconcerned
standing there
in her white *******
and bra
holding the black dress
gazing towards
the unmade bed
but I had other problems
swimming around
inside my teenage head.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
i found them
while i was
digging
through old boxes
covered in dust
hidden
in the shadows
beneath my bed
i'd been searching for LPs
Lost in the Sound of
Separation on vinyl
record
its sentimental value
binding memories of
my favorite band
countless shows
a myriad of friends
it was there that i
found exactly what
it was i wasn't
looking for
who knows
maybe i hid them
because they
reminded me of things
best left forgotten
the blue sticky note
read in purple ink
"my favorite prints
for my favorite person.
thanks for believing
in my work."
in every photograph was a
little bit of you
dead friends
broken homes
dark rooms with
hardly any light
a child looking for love
the beach palms
skateboards and surfboards
in every photograph was a
little bit of you
shot in black
and white
refined in their
aesthetic but
only one photo actually
had you in it
three windows
light filtering through
closed blinds
an air vent in the bottom
right-hand corner
you stand in the center
and it is evident that
you are shirtless as you
look over your shoulder
at the camera suspended
in the room
what thoughts crossed your
mind when the shutter
shuddered shut
in every photograph was a
little bit of you
and if we’re being honest
there was a little of
me too
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
The second poem in the series by my alter ego, Count Orlok the wicked Vampyr
O how the moon peeps out gaily from behind a pink cloud,
Its light shining wanly on the grave of my fat neighbour,
That ugly old **** Bert Higgenbottom, follower of silly old Jesus,
As my vampyr fangs glisten in the ***** moonlight.
Ding! **** The midnight bell tolls like the clappers
And I rise fully ***** to begin the horrid task
Which I have been putting off for months:
The ritual defilement of his mouldy corpse.
What a shock to discover his nightdress-clad body
Lying next to his collection of Doris Day LPs;
Thus I turn the putrid plump corpse over carefully
Before sodomising it with my mighty circumcised ****
Yucch! It's a grim job but someone's got to do it.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on
May 17, 2022
May 17, 2022 at 8:59 AM UTC
Just love those
Sunday afternoons.
A time with nothing to do,
no place to go,
no people to see.
Time for delicious laziness
and carefree leisure.
I search on Youtube,
our collective memory vault,
fishing for songs from the 70s.
Music of the Eagles,
Carol King and Bread.
Turn up the volume,
let the music flow.
Easy listening on Sunday afternoon
is a family tradition.
dating back to childhood.
A sacred weekend ritual
of lying on the window sill,
listening to Father’s LPs,
while I savored the scent
of Mom’s home cooking.
All the while soaking in the sun.
Content like a cat.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 6:28 PM UTC
It was a Saturday morning
And you were 19
and you were racing along
Victoria Street having just left
Victoria Railway Station
on your way to Dobell’s
Jazz Record Shop
moving quickly
through the sea
of humanity
thinking of jazz
and what record
you were going to buy
at the shop that day
imaging yourself
********* through LP sleeves
taking a mental note
of which one
you might buy
a John Coltrane or Miles Davis
an Art Blakey or maybe
a Dizzy Gillespie
a jazz record being played
over the loudspeakers
in the shop
you mingling with others
in the crowded place
when this hobo stopped you
taking hold of your jacket gently
and said
have you got some small change
for a sandwich?
no
you replied
I haven’t
and rushed on
through the crowd
********* in your pocket
loose change
silvery coins
and his voice
in your head
as you raced along
and your conscience
nagging you
maybe the voice
of the believed in Christ
so you stopped
and turned around
and made your journey back
through the people
passing by
your fingers taking hold
of the coins
the silvery loose change
and there he was
the hobo asking others
the same question
and they too went by
shaking their heads
or saying
no sorry no change
and you took his hand
and put in the loose silver
into his open palm
and said
here go buy yourself
a sandwich or whatever
and you turned
and left looking over
your shoulder
and he stood there
staring at his palm
and the coins shining
in the morning sun
and then you looked ahead
thinking of the record shop
and the LPs and the jazz music
being played
but deep down
in some other part of you
you knew you’d given
to one who maybe
was hungry
and had unconsciously
prayed.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
All alone
in the dark
listening to old Martin Denny LPs
I drain my last bottle of bourbon,
extinguish a cigarette that tastes nothing
A single tear falls gently from my left eye
I blow my nose in my left sock
and fall asleep on the sofa
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 6:12 PM UTC
*** I
listen when i-
n many moods
bec- a-
use- it
he- lps
to clear
m- y mind.
music alway-
s makes thin-
gs better. I-
t lets me e- s-
cape my t- o-
rtured r- e-
ality. T- he calm it br-
ings makes me feel safe, and t-
he st- rength i- t gives
me h- elps m- e to st-
and tall. It helps
me ke- e- p my
hea- d held
high, even when my h-
eart is breaking.
It
it ai-
ds me in e- x-
pressing my- se-
lf. It ke-
eps me sane. Music
is my safe
place.***
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
I met Tilly after she
had finished work,
before she caught
her bus home, we
went to a milk bar,
had a coffee and bun.
What did your mum say
about you coming to my
place to listen to LPs?
I said. She doesn't trust
you, Tilly said, and she
doesn't believe your mum
will be there to supervise.
I sipped my black coffee
disappointed. What about
on your half day? She need
not know you're coming
to my place; we can play
my sister's Beatles LPs or
my Elvis, I said. Too risky,
she might wonder why I'm
not home on my half day,
Tilly said. I lit a cigarette
and so did she. Tell her in
advance you've got some
stock-taking to do. Tilly
sighed: I've done more
stock-taking recently;
she'll suspect I'm up to no
good. I looked at her and
smiled; I tried and failed,
but at least I can look at
you now and enjoy your
beauty, I said. She frowned:
I am off on holiday the week
after next, maybe we could
arrange something then,
she said, I have an uncle
in Richmond and he's asked
me to stay and look after his
house for a few days while
he's away. Richmond? I said,
I suppose I could take a day
off and meet you. No, she said,
a night as well. I smiled and
so did she. Sometimes there's
a rainbow you just don't see.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
Lizbeth's mum
tidied up
Lizbeth's room
such a mess
plates and cups
on the floor
and LPs
here and there
underwear
cast aside
not picked up
then she found
the *** book
in Lizbeth's
chest of drawers
opened up
saw pictures
of women
and **** men
positions
and advice
she sat down
on the bed
going red
hands shaking
closed the book
didn't know
anything
of those things
that she'd seen
other than
the basic
position
should she say
to Lizbeth
what she'd found?
just 13
why would she
need the book?
and has she
done those things?
Lizbeth's mum
put the book
back again
tidied up
polished round
went downstairs
in a trance
turned on her
radio
on came Bach
concertos
the cellos.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
You never know what you will find.
The eyeball of a cow. Weeping condoms.
Deserted televisions lacking flat screens,
no longer desirable, abandoned, forlorn.
A pair of torn, lacy,black *******
in an alley; must be a story there.
A cat with one eye and three legs,
devouring a vole. Scattered books awash.
A depressed, deflated hemorrhoid donut.
Soaked album of ruined wedding pictures.
Forever mute, broken, vinyl LPs.
Three shotgun shells but no shotgun.
Not a sign of the splattered victim.
Almost everything you can't imagine.
The devious flotsam and jetsam of life.
The ordinary stuff of nightmares and poems.
All the world's magnificent mysteries,
strewn like tears on streets and alleys,
waiting to be rediscovered, again,
like dangerous, lost New Worlds,
yours for the simple effort of walking.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
How this little misses causes me to misses
Her sweet little cheek kisses, so much I’ll never really know
And if I could have the whole world right now,
All I’d take is one day with you tunneling through mounds of snow.
Toys, toys, ouch I stepped on more toys.
I guess I’ll take LPS construction over a hundred boys
Causes me and Jaron are the only two for you
It took at four years but now you always say I love you too.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
I wanted to meet you
outside the National
Gallery, Julie says, but
the doctors weren't keen,
said I ****** up my drug
medication, and not let
me out for days. She
was a drug dependent,
on the cure, or so she said.
And waiting you went
to Dobells's record shop,
listened to few jazz LPs,
had a beer, sat and smoked,
thought about *** the having
and not so. Then she shows,
her dark hair neat, pony-tailed,
her tight figure in the clothes
she wears, **** almost touchable.
Let's skip the old stuff, she says,
let's keep to the modern ****
save time, energy, then after
a drink and chat. So you go
in the Gallery, take in all those
moderns, the stuff she likes,
the portraits, the brush skills
involved, who painted whom,
buy a few postcards, look
at books. Then off for a coffee
and chat, you go to some place
in Leicester Square, sit at a table,
take out the cigarettes, wait
for the order, take in her features
as she speaks, her eyes, her lips,
the way her hair is brushed
and kept, her tight top, those
pressing out of **** I liked
the Picasso, she says, his stuff
really gets to me, makes other
works boring as last year's *****
You notice how she holds her
cigarette, the fingers not yet
browny yellow, hold it just so,
not tight or loose, but gently,
like it was some baby kid instead
of tobacco filled paper deadly drug.
The coffees come, neat small cups,
tiny handles, froth and such. I feel
the need, she says,all the time that
need to hit the veins or tongue. You
hear her words, out there, fragile things,
taking flight, like doomed black birds.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
Ice melted and the lemon soaked up the
deep plush juices of cranberries.
The smell of you was newly showered,
damp and warm
still looking slightly *****
Water bottles, made of plastic
were slowly shifted in an Eastern ocean.
The separateness of their position from land
reminded me of us.
Dark brown ceramic ash trays smoked.
Lounging, we read the backs of LPS and
talked thoughtlessly about genius.
Jean shorts sagged and lost their body,
but still we felt pretty.
A really loving melody, Joni Mitchell,
played from downstairs.
Upstairs, a pillow between my legs and
background semi-trucks on the turnpike.
And picking up the smell of you, faraway and happy.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
Ten years ago when
I got divorced, I
owned 6,000 books,
a riding mower,
a house on an acre
and enough other stuff
to supply a Syrian
family for a year.
Now I live in a three
room shotgun apartment.
A year ago I embarked
on a minimalist frenzy.
Out went the LPs,
the vintage stereo
equipment and radios,
the remaining books
(a Kindle is a
minimalist's best
friend), most of the
furniture (no one visits
here), boxes of magazines,
all the clothes not
worn in the past year,
all of my gadgets
and, best of all, my
wretched teaching job.
I wanted to pare my life
down to the essentials
and see what remained.
Now I live on practically
nothing with practically
nothing. I give my
occupation (when asked)
as Poet. That gets
wonderfully baffled looks.
I am eccentric to the
extreme and love it.
The cat and I, an old
anarchist and mute feline,
make the perfect minimalist
family living out the dregs
of an obscure, minimal life.
We are what we are, free
from the tyranny of things,
content to quietly
careen into whatever bit
of future remains to us
enjoying the minutes,
ignoring the years.
~mce
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
Mary Moran rolls a cigarette
between fingers and thumbs,
liberated tobacco and paper
from her da's pocket,
if he knew he'd belt her behind,
she licks the paper end
with her damp tongue,
rolls it thin and lights it up
with a Swan Vesta stole
from her ma's kitchen box,
Magdalene she'd met
at the coffee bar
had a laugh talked
of Sister Bridget and the priest
and some going ons,
sweet Mags gazed at her
placed a hand on her thigh
talked of her da,
the smoke rises
from the ciggie skyward
cloud like,
Martha sat sipping her coffee
********* her rosary
in the bar like Brian
fingers my bra strap
the loon,
Mary knows what
Brian is after
he's more chance
of the pox than that
she muses watching
the smoke twirl
as it touches the roof
of the greenhouse glass,
if Da found me now
he'd tan my ***
she muses inhaling
deeper lungful drag,
the priest in confessions
(the old boy)nigh on
had a heart attack
when she confessed
the weeks worth,
spluttering she heard
through the wire mesh
of the confessional,
Magdalene wants me
to go listen to LPs
on her record player
in her room away
from her da and ma
and their moans and groans,
Martha with her blue eyes
stared at the crucifix
on her rosary
like a lovesick cow
as they sipped their coffee
and yakked
of the priest and nun
and imagined fun.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
She'll do.
She's a rough approximation of you
without the sense of humor.
She'll do
and she did.
Rough drafts come through
the window.
A woman like that will only let you
get away with her for so long.
Every time she left
I was paranoid she wasn't coming back.
I'm turning into John Cusack
with my LPs in a stack.
She's never coming back.
I write my ****** heart out for you.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
She has the children asleep now
and the rest of the night is hers;
her husband is on his night shift,
so she'll have the bed to herself
unless one of the kids wake up
and climb in the bed beside her,
as they do when their dad's away.
Nothing on the TV to please,
so she plays one or two LPs
and sits in the armchair to muse,
as the music touches her ears.
They used to dance to this music
at the youth club, no longer there.
She sips a gin and lemonade
and has her final cigarette,
and thinks of life, without regret.
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 2:04 AM UTC
I sit
at the kitchen table
in the farm house
with Milka.
Her mother
is washing dishes
from breakfast.
Milka is late down,
and eating cereal.
Her mother turns to me,
and says:
can I get you
anything, Benny?
Something hot?
She smiles and I
smile back,
and say:
yes a cup of tea
would be nice,
thank you.
Milka watches
the smiles,
and gently kicks me
under the table,
and mouths:
don't smile like
that at her.
I frown.
Don't smile
like that at her,
Milka mouths again.
I stop smiling,
and gaze at Milka;
she is not pleased;
jealous of her
own mother's
attention to me;
she thinks(she told me
the other day)
her mother is
playing up to me.
What are we up
to today?
Her mother says.
We? What do you
mean we?
Milka says.
Well you and Benny,
her mother says,
turning and putting
a cup of tea
in front of me,
smiling.
I gaze at her
motherly *****
her bright eyes.
We're going shopping
in town,
Milka says,
I need to get some things
and Benny wants to look
in the record shop
at Elvis LPs.
I see,
her mother says,
I may go
to town later;
your father is busy
on the farm,
so I'll have to go alone.
Where are the boys?
Milka says.
Sea fishing,
her mother says,
won't be back
until late.
I look at Milka,
she looks at me.
Right while you're
finishing your breakfast
I'll go do the beds,
and her mother
went out and up
the stairs.
Do you have to smile
at her like that?
Milka says.
Like what?
I say.
Gawk at her,
and smile;
you can see
she is after you.
After me?
What do you mean?
I say.
Wants you in her bed,
Milka says.
I doubt it,
I say.
Don't doubt it;
avoid gawking at her.
Milka eats her breakfast
for a few minutes,
then says,
if we come back
while she's shopping,
we can maybe
have time
in my room
and do things.
I smile
and watch her eat,
wondering about
her mother upstairs,
and what if she did.
I showed
no real interest,
but if so,
I kept it well hid.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
Mother had lectured you
on the state
of your room
as soon as you got in
from school;
you stood there
nodding and clutching
your satchel,
wishing she’d finish
so you could go
to your room
and be away
from her yak.
Friday and the end
of school
for a few days;
you hoped to cycle out
to Benny’s parents’ cottage
in the morning
and maybe get him
in the hay barn
on the farm
or some such place.
Make sure you tidy
that room up,
Mother said.
You said you would
and climbed the stairs
to your bedroom,
which looked out
on the cherry trees
and gooseberry bushes.
Once in your room
you looked around:
your bed had been made
and most items on the floor
had been put away,
except for the record player
and LPs.
The window was open
and fresh air entering
and chilling the room.
You closed the window
and stared out.
The old girl next door
was throwing bread
to the birds on her lawn.
A tabby cat
sat behind
the gooseberry bushes,
waiting.
You turned
and slipping of your shoes,
you lay on your bed.
You had seen Benny
briefly at school;
he was walking
along the corridor
to another lesson,
and he smiled
and you smiled back.
You wanted to grab him
and kiss him,
but a teacher was passing by
and shooed you on.
You turned on your bed
and imagined he was there
lying next to you.
You closed your eyes,
and touched your thigh,
pretending it was him,
not you,
his hand touching you.
You hugged yourself,
placing a hand
along your back,
moving the fingers,
imagining Benny’s hand
doing it.
But you weren’t good
at pretending;
you wanted
the real thing.
You looked forward
to Saturday morning
and what
it might bring.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 2:59 AM UTC
You suspected Saffy
Was shafted by her
Brother; the big ape
Eyed her frequently
From his armchair
In the corner when
You called on her
To go out. She had
That, Oh I can’t go
Out now look; can’t
We stay in, watch a
Movie or go to my
Room and listen to the
Hifi? Sure, you’d say,
And go to her to room
And sit in the chair by
The wide window as she
Sorted through records.
The side of her neck was
Shot with brown marks,
Her eyes haunted, her thin
Fingers flicking LPs, her
Tongue lying on her lower
Lip. She played her only
Beatles album, Help,
Played it loud, sitting
On the edge of her bed,
Nodding her head. The ape
Knocked her door, peered
Through the gap, not too loud
Saf, turn it down lover child,
Don’t want any neighbours
Banging on the wall, he said.
She waved you goodbye from
The door, the ape saw you
Off, his eyes following your
*** down the path with
His sick laugh. Saf didn’t
Say that he did, but hinted,
Implied; her words echoing
Through the mind years later.
The ape long since dead;
Bullet in the head, by her
They said, pulling the trigger
Of the father’s gun, ending
It in the room where all began;
Window open, wind blowing
Curtains, gun blast, midday sun.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
Magdalene's
parents row
she hears them
from her room
nightly fights
loud voices
hands slapping
she turns up
her tiny
transistor
radio
and listens
ear up close
to some song
by Elvis
she's undressed
soiled linen
cast aside
short nightie
a lush pink
she then thinks
of Mary
on this bed
hours back
listening
to LPs
on her small
hi-fi box
both smoking
sipping slow
some borrowed
of ma's gin
Mary said
that idjit
boy Brian
tried to get
his **** leg
over me
but I said
go **** sheep
they both laughed
huddled close
Magdalene
put her hand
on Mary's
naked knee
moved upward
Mary said
go ahead
still rowing
downstairs
her parents
her da's voice
thundering
through the floor
her ma's voice
soprano
counterpoints
his tenor
as if in
opera
by Verdi
Magdalene
gets in bed
says her prayers
(old routine)
then lays down
in the dark
(light turned out)
dreaming of
Mary's lips
Mary's hands
Mary's hips
Mary's eyes
letting out
in slow breath
her deep sighs.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
sprinting hand in hand down narrow streets
running around unsuspecting bystanders and passerbyers
laughs echoing off the skyscrapers, louder than all the taxi cabs and mixed up conversations of the city
chasing the pink sunset that reflects in golden hues off of the concrete jungle
walking hand in hand around the edges of the lakes in central park
dancing on subway platforms to street performers unique melodies
falling into attraction in between musty lps in dimly lit record shops hidden away in greenwich
falling in love in vacant coffee shops or on apartment building rooftops
the city is where nostalgia takes a form of reality and where chaos disguises itself as a form of surreal serenity
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC