Poem: Guide

Don’t panic, never surrender, not once

in your life, can you see the flip side,

grading on the curve and grading the curve, itself in terms

recalling beauty and beautiful justice, seems like a torture

storm everywhere, go to the store

people watching like you used to do

on weekends at the mall, it’s like a hell mirror

for the soul, can be found chicken soup

in the smiles of children, until they’re erased by hypocrisy

incarnate in the birth givers, and stupid wrath

in mockery or downtalk, or straight abuse

like when your dad cackled coughing cigarette smoke in your face.

 

Beer-swilling idiot or whatever, we’ve all got our shit and deal

the cards when they’re asked for, but pulling a few

slight of hand slips from our sleeves, showing the Trump card

goddamnit, he sneaks in sideways

I swear to god, at a white wall

staring black, bright moon eyes block

the sun to nothing, but everything is a dip

of the sin curve, we’re all reading the signs

recording progress in revolutionary violence

of some say too much, making us pause for a recount

atrocity, sealing lips shut, close your eyes

for the love of god, we can’t watch what he’s made of us.

Poem: Guide

Poem:New Day

To hear summer morning crack

open a storm, joyfully dawning

the new day with symbols mystifying

the senses, interested, like a regard

for the shapeless beauty

of everything, and it’s great, but he still he’s the president

for a long fucking time, not that long

really, but long enough

for me, certainly, Jesus Christ

can you fucking believe it, yes I can

you asshole, because what the fuck

does making sense matter?  And what the fuck

who cares if I’m not

creative with my word choices, it’s completely believable

inevitable and pointless, it’s the imagination that matters

to you, like when you were little.

 

Not that little, in the fancy rich park

with the shapes and colors, when we finally abandoned

the conceit, saying “okay, we’re wizards,”

me and my loser friends, agreeing that beforehand,

I’m a lightning or storm wizard

who lives in the swamp talking to everything

alive, like the fatalist

in those stories you wrote, where he was born

on a rope in the storm, which was the world

for us, I want to go back

inspecting the rubble, real horrorshow.

 

Me and my buddies, standing in a crowd

jaws hanging loose at the sight of the bombs

dropping, all silent subtext is not

in between the lines, wear it as a hat

folded newspaper scraps, make a fire in a trash can

for fun, write with blood

a manifesto, a goodbye speech

for the penitent, seeing the future

written in lipstick on a naked dead body,

just the word sorry, we didn’t know

it is floating away, forever.

Poem:New Day

Poem: Polaroid Future

I can see the future, a field and a forest

where horror howling hangs from trees

by fibers, like numbers, haunting masks

red-hued and craggy, jagged scars

everywhere on the street, in the street

they breathe a rhythm with the fading heartbeat

of the city, we see the future set

to grow as the world shrinks, exploding

through the picture frame, finding out what is

true human will, seeing the universe

as a coliseum, rather than flags we plant

knives in the backs of brothers

and sisters, I am so scared.

 

The sin curve will break, no doubt

hard as could ever be, I will breathe

blood and sweat, until I’m old and dead

8 times out of ten, I won’t get to see it

when the world is heaven, unbound and borderless

house to a dying breed, knives out of our teeth

at last, so that we can finally grow

truly together, but I’ll be having fun

in the carnage, because I am an artist

of the downfall, flowing over humps and rapids

taking pictures of the trip, I’m pretty sure

hopefully, because there’s always the chance though

I don’t like to think about it, that war is coming..

Poem: Polaroid Future

Movie Review: Sing Street

Sing Street is boundlessly enjoyable and irresistibly euphoric, making it feel like the most worthwhile movie watching experience I’ve had in years.  Directed by John Carney, who achieved fame creating 2007’s surprise musical hit Once, again packs this film with very good original music (Composed by veteran music producer Gary Clark) to effectively enhance the emotional impact of the story.  The film takes the well-worn (i.e overdone) plot line of a troubled youth escaping his depressing home life through music, and while strictly adhering to every cliche of the genre, it elevates the story into something spectacular and life-affirming.

The film’s protagonist is Conor (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo), an unassuming frail waif of a teen, who inside carries the heart of a champion.  Whereas in a typical coming of age/band formation story the protagonist would admire his muse from afar, crippled by nerves, Conor walks right up to her and asks if she wants a light for the unlit cigarette hanging from her lips.  Conor’s queen Raphina (Lucy Boynton) is a fascinating character, reacting to her own depressing circumstance with an iron-faced confidence, she stands on the stoop of the girl’s home where she lives across from the all boys school that Conor attends everyday, watching.

Rafina’s a ward of the State whom we’re led to believe may have been taken away from her father because of sexual abuse (this is only ever hinted at), and she has only threadbare dreams of becoming a model in London.  However, she is the catalyst that drives every major step in the creation of this band, and the chemistry she has with Conor quickly becomes the focal point of the movie.  Around this relationship Carney found a cast of extremely charming and talented teenagers, particularly Mark McKenna and Ian Kenny, to pack the rest of the film with hilariously honest moments.

Sing Street is a movie about dreams, and the way they can seem impossible until true passion and heartfelt fervor can put them in reach before you know it.  This brings us to another key character, Conor’s older brother Robert. Robert is a 20-something college dropout who once upon a time had musical dreams of his own, but rather than any type of jealousy, he loves imparting his love of popular music onto Conor.  Robert’s deep love for his little brother is written on his face at every scene.  At one moment in the film, Robert leaps into the air with triumphant joy at Conor’s courage and risk-taking, and watching Sing Street made me want to join along.

Sing Street (2016)

Director: John Carney

Writer: John Carney

Cast: Ferdia Walsh-Peelo as Conor

Lucy Boynton as Raphina

Jack Reynor as Robert

Trailer addendum: This trailer, when I first saw it, seemed hokey like a paint-by-numbers coming-of-age story, and in a way that’s what Sing Street is, but having seen the movie, even the trailer is joyously powerful.

 

Movie Review: Sing Street

Poem: Author!

It’s life is our pessimism, flowing from the roots

up, until it makes a river, blood and bile, marrow and semen

flowing its life down

every embankment, in every divot

we planted without forethought, retracting

we are from the consequences

infinitely fracturing, bigger and bigger than bigger

until I can’t breathe, realizing it’s effect was more

in time than I could bear, it was what I marked on the card

at the speed-dating lecture, is what it felt like

reminding me of college like a boner

sitting in a room of your peers, looking at the ground

until you live in the hole you bore with your eyes.

 

Definitely through the day and whatever

hell will come, eventually a shining pegasus

will scorch the air, you’ll be baked and sizzled,

to speak bluntly, but you’re wrong and have been

for some time, that shining is a heaven

sent perfume, a spiritual smog, like a fog

thick and matted, but finally cuts the knowledge

that you’re an idiot,

undoubtedly, to know that the love lies

within, and if you find it in your everyday, you are the one

to survive the cataclysm, just wear a t-shirt and cheer

for nothing.

 

But I suppose I would if I could

is a sentiment that really means something, I would

undoubtedly, but it means nothing

so what would I care?  It is a stupid word

used by the rich, leisured and elite

like the vikings, they realized that truth is better

than poetry, because truth is understood

in your bones and your blood, if you clarify

the word fog, here at the end, for no purpose

do I write like this, because what matters is

what you think, not the author

and his big dick

Poem: Author!

Poem: The Morning After

The time is now, that much is certain

to everyone, for everyone, too

much is certain, stores running short

of confidence, seeing the past and the future

superimposed, something must and is

happening now in people’s exploding

minds, afire and that’s all it takes

to start a real revolution, the revolt of the revealed

tearing everyone’s blinders off.

 

Or, spit on the ground, cleat it

with steel, make a stomping splash

sound effect, goose-stepping

our discarded hopes, forgetting the ancient

wisdom seeping up again

from the dirt, feasting on death

as flowers eat the sun, every factorial cataclysm

shows that the sky is higher

than ever, before we finally see

god, the devil and a rapturous war.

 

More than likely neither, of course

because whatever happens, the heart beats

like nothing, it lasts forever

as far as you know, in the end

it will come too soon, so justly

we wander on, taking what comes

clean and dusted as best

we can, say yes half-heartedly

again, but not for a while.

Poem: The Morning After

Poem: Election Day

Clear we are like like the sound

of singeing blades, through the tapestry

of life’s rich and poor, all are victims

all of us, simply, though there can be others

undoubtedly, steady philosophically, probably

reasonable, but who could tell with Ayn Rand

rousting people, because she grew

in extremes of injustice and horror, which arose because people know

their place, in the scheme of things

considered in wartime, but then they rejoice in joining

humanity’s final war, to join the elite.

 

The end of the world will not be supernatural,

it will take decades

beginning tonight, maybe.

 

Que sera sera, as they say

Poem: Election Day