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Nothing But a Star

Page 3

by Jeremy Reed


  COME ALIVE AND BURN

  Around the World

  A poem does it, like ratatouille,

  travels the world in Sandra’s head

  as a weightless neural bullet

  the compacted hit

  on slow release, she’s been to St Petersburg,

  to Santa Monica CA,

  the sunset there like an exploded

  pomegranate impacting on violet,

  some whooshy lines of mine tracking her thoughts

  in Laurel canyon having sex

  in a lipstick red Cadillac.

  In Beijing too in steamy rain

  picking at dim sum like a jeweller’s tray

  she’s been reminded of a part

  fitting her mood like crispy duck

  and bitten on a chewy word

  like a pop hook, the street outside

  rippling with umbrellas like lily pads.

  In London now she talks to me

  about the edgewalker poetry

  of mine she keeps in her back brain

  and how it comes up like a drug

  as an accessible reward

  she’ll get through customs anywhere

  or use combatively against lovers

  as something she resistantly won’t share.

  I have this little space in her

  at work or in her black Toyota

  or in a cramped plane to Vancouver

  where my image-clusters shine

  upbeat orange, downbeat blue,

  an intangible anthology

  of private moments turned over in bed

  alone or with a lover incited

  by her distracted state to jealousy.

  Superglue

  I’m cruising William Gibson’s Spook Country:

  a cuboid slab of central London facing in,

  the sky lavender orange green and pink

  my interest cyanoacrylate monomer

  molar mass 111.1 g/mol

  as polymer–themed inspiration for poetry

  that never sticks—the clear liquid bonding

  as much in sutureless surgery

  as re-hardening shanks of pointe shoes

  to help rehabilitate a dancer’s

  fig coloured bruised toes.

  I’ve got another Pinot Grigio

  mortuaried in the fridge, a frosted tower

  that’s tinted green but pours yellow,

  and rehabilitates my chemistry.

  I shift from Gibson to free-floating imagery

  and thinking I’ll buy a Russian military coat

  and badge it for resistance to the cold,

  an edgy slab of corporate banditry

  lit up opposite like an app-buttoned iPhone

  blocked on the skyline as a mirrored pop

  of commerce smooched by blue invasive fog.

  Diadem Court

  A Soho alley—it’s the purple door

  so ultra-violet a saturated stand out

  on St Anne’s House, the red and blue

  dissolved into purple assault,

  throws shapes at me like confrontational art.

  I’d chanced into the space from Carlisle Street,

  a fuzzy, pixelated, grainy day

  itchy with thundery humidity

  my head still tracking angles—how she walked

  this Malaysian on red killer heels,

  skinny jeans fitted like a blue paint tube,

  compact, pressurised, oscillating swing—

  she’d disappeared into a block,

  my ear-buds feeding me alternatives

  to our shared parallel realities,

  the time 5.34 p.m., a left

  taking me into a repurposed court,

  the door theoretically magenta,

  a street-art rectangular explosive shock—

  a Dulux Pamplona purple emulsified

  into slick gloss that stared me down

  like the idea of walking through the violet band

  of the rainbow into a hall,

  too dazed, stunned and amazed to do a thing

  but have the colour open out in me

  like morning glories chasing up the sun.

  Reported Sightings

  An orange poppy with a frilled saucer

  holds its duration for a day

  a wiry self-seeded outtake

  I only find by accident

  optimally important in its way

  as sex or the black voodoo doll

  I bought at Camden, black wool thing

  I fastened to a scarlet string

  and left hanging on the back door

  as hoodoo to monitor

  the underside of what I see.

  I do poetry on the 24 bus

  churning in from NW3

  sighting image-hits accidentally

  like ufo or logo-spotting

  or pulling signage on a transit van

  to fire a poem up

  random and spontaneously

  like inspiration that I find

  on the ridged label of your ruffled string

  in pink sans serif lettering

  on black, the lettered code you keep

  as closest ID to your skin

  like instructive poetry:

  it sits on you like a haiku.

  The things I see I make my own

  inventively, the city bleeds

  accidental visuals into my chemistry

  an orange poppy and purple T-bar

  feeding my exhaustive needs

  to bring me neurally alive

  upbeat and focused on my kill—

  the image as particular

  to how I function lifting everything

  as little bits just for the thrill.

  A Day in the Life

  Laurent and Brigitte? The photographer

  anonymously pulled them from the crowd

  in Paris 1957,

  a random voyeuristic tracking eye

  beside the river, sticky heat

  coating the Seine in gelatine:

  the sunglassed girl, skirt hitched to a mini,

  sits typing on the river bank,

  blonde highlights, halter top, a Gitanes pack,

  sexy, cerebral, her futures ideas

  brushed into poetry, like the red paint

  articulated on her finger nails.

  She’s so focused she doesn’t feel the lens

  making intrusive dialogue,

  but only thinks of the tangy iced beer

  she’ll sip at later as frothy reward.

  The other’s viewed through her bedroom window,

  black bra, black satin slip, her eye attends

  a coffee cup placed on the floor,

  books and record sleeves racked, windows open

  on vectored heat, she’s low beside a lamp

  that lights the photo. It’s midsummer dark,

  a grainy inky blue that holds up late.

  The blow-up by her bed: he’s a singer

  the man she’ll never meet. Her blonde hair’s waved,

  an empty coat-hanger’s synonymous

  with how she’ll sleep alone in twitchy heat.

  She doesn’t know that he lives opposite,

  the one who freezes time to recreate

  her image, cryopreserve it on film,

  a small man, out early, scouting the streets,

  stopping to buy papers and cigarettes

  and a russet snouty hot-baked baguette.

  Soho Kids in Retro—(pop song)

  In the sixties orange sunshine

  saturated Ham Yard;

  pill-heads on Vespas

  and two-tone Lambrettas

  in tonic suits and desert boots

  danced to Motown and Ska.

  It’s the 21st century

  and Iraq’s in the sky;

  it’s a World War Three catastrophe

  from a political lie,

  but Soho kids in retro

  won’t ever let mod
die.

  In the sixties orange sunshine

  was like a lysergic halo

  a rainbow in a blue sky

  windowed over Soho

  and outside Bar Italia

  speed dealers sold Smith French & Kline.

  In the 21st century

  the black gold Gulf blows up

  and the hedge fund politicians

  just grin at the rip

  but Soho kids in retro

  won’t ever let mod slip.

  In the sixties orange sunshine

  broke into Ham Yard;

  cool kids in tonic suits

  hung out looking hard

  blocked on speed and jittery

  dancing to bluebeat and ska.

  In the sixties orange sunshine

  was like vitamin C;

  the stylist on Wardour Street

  had it down to a T.

  faces danced right through the night

  in the club’s white heat.

  It’s the 21st century

  and the oligarchs drive on

  in their bullet-proof limos;

  they don’t care what they’ve done

  but Soho kids in retro

  catch the hazy orange sun.

  ET Conference

  The two white iron-lines as parallels

  track dead centre the inside thigh

  of her rainy-sky blue Lee jeans,

  a black sequin heart-shape sewn as a patch

  back left pocket, a spiral swirl

  visible as a snake tattoo,

  the tail extended like a green corkscrew.

  She feeds him noodles, sitting on his lap;

  an earring, a gold tooth, a flash

  signalling a flurry of swishy hair

  shaken out like a slinky tabby cat.

  He’s got Philip K Dick in a pocket,

  the fuzzy lecture over, and we heard

  of teleport networks spanning

  the dusty violent highways between stars,

  the data readable, intelligence

  transmitted back coded in dark matter.

  The lecturer claimed contact with ETs,

  and spoke of a blue orbiter—

  the astronaut memorial

  rotating with names of dead astronauts

  etched on a slab of gritty lunar rock

  lined up in a solar gateway.

  I’d sat in and retrieved the martian bits

  about alien colonists in the stars

  and UFO contrails from reaction mass

  burning across intergalactic space

  tracked by grainy orbiter photographs.

  I’d lived it neurally, neuron clusters

  compact as enzymes in ayahuasca,

  or corridored space in my quantum dreams,

  SF as a purple rainbow

  arching over the dark side of the Moon.

  She fed him stringy noodles like a bunch

  of tangled bootlaces, her snake tattoo

  venomously sensual,

  cactus-green streaked with indigo,

  the tail disappearing in her buttocks,

  the fantasy optimal, like the stripes

  doing black and white zebras on her socks.

  Harold Robbins

  Deserves a poem, like naming a star:

  a porno-mule pulp-thriller czar,

  his fiction full of bra-poppers—

  a prose junky mapping the line

  with formula: his plots have torque and keep

  alignment like a Jaguar.

  A lawyer’s haircut, foyer-sized glasses,

  he’s readable unlike real literature

  that never goes that far, he thinks dollars

  like reading online stock prices;

  his book jackets the selling-point,

  the Playboy blonde in an ice cream cone skirt

  is back cover in black panties,

  the theme an accelerated hard-on

  burn-up on a global gangster heist

  750 million copies richer:

  Harry talking to a feisty parrot,

  a mango-coloured impresario

  querulous at tropical siesta

  impersonating Chinese orgasm,

  his wife’s stormy delirium.

  A Wall Street skyscraper talent

  Harry’s the narrative mogul

  winning it with The Carpetbaggers

  every book written in neon

  the storyline flashing red, blue and green

  like a foil of coloured condoms.

  Peppering Strawberries

  The books I’ve written stack like air traffic,

  Boeing rumble in a white toxic sky,

  a carbon smear to Ibiza

  or Istanbul. My ear-buds bleed Moby’s

  Last Night for dancey, mixed up clarity,

  like peppering a heart-shaped strawberry.

  I never care about the books I do,

  they’re like plane noise, atomised kerosene

  tracked to let go as parallel event

  in the churning skyways. I’m on the street,

  image 043 on my phone,

  at 1.53 a.m., black bobbed Japanese,

  red floral scarf, a silver beaded top,

  lips like a candy-pink poppy,

  and Moby integrating a soundtrack

  into the moment, like a squirt

  of dopamine, and I sit out

  by a geranium tub on Woburn Walk,

  fixing a poem’s accessorised bits

  quantified like a drug’s ingredients,

  the light on me so complex it’s star-mapped

  with molecular info, dusty speed,

  and I write for no advance, but my own

  perverse, transiently sensational need.

  Recorded Music

  Her ear-buds filled with iPod compression

  like condensing a star to a sand grain.

  It’s Thursday, and an intermission day,

  the hiatus I knew at school,

  time out like missing time, or a 737

  dematerialised in a whiteout fog.

  These bluesmen disappeared into the hills

  for a bunchy insiders’ convention,

  Dylan their guru rumoured there

  dusting the concourse with his pile-drive chords

  like shattering. The empty space filled in

  with cloud confection by late afternoon.

  The pop though, covers half a century,

  Bessie Smith, Lady Day, Lou, indie, grime,

  the quotient expanding by the hour’s

  updated technology: and we’re two

  as the comfort of strangers, listening in

  to our preferential downloads

  and how it happens like an east and west

  city crossover—the blues in the lot

  like primitive, or blue Himalayan poppies

  taking the colour over from the sky.

  Bonus Tracks

  6 street-smart

  incremental Lou Reed outtakes

  on Coney Island Baby: vault-

  lifted, original masters

  scorching with speed-freak imagery

  optimal amphetamine cool

  the ah-ha ah-ha

  inflected attitude

  ah-ha

  a danger signal, vocal swipe,

  half cosh, half drawlish tease,

  half gangster, ah-

  ha, half striptease.

  The music’s wired by the Down-Trodden-Three,

  the vicious decibel attack

  frying the studio: ‘Nowhere At All’

  sounding like sonic tachycardia:

  ‘Downtown Dirt’ is a bourbon slurred

  ace piece of misogyny—

  the gay outlaw reviewing uptown wives

  brutally laid

  on the Lower East Side, face-lifts collapsed,

  dirt in their pores, like grain in bark.

  ‘Leave Me Alone’ comes motherfucker taunt,

  and ‘Crazy Feel
ing’ burns the rush

  of sighting Rachel in a bar,

  ‘She’s My Best Friend’ accelerates

  the rip into delirious stutter,

  and ‘Coney Island Baby’ slows it all

  to four-four doo-wap narrative,

  the voice no warmer, the casual

  incentive

  on January 6 1975

  at Electric Lady Studios NYC

  to demo life, gun tracks down and survive.

  Jumping the Queue

  Our pink camellias flop wasted brown

  go flat

  like a bullet of pink champagne

  left standing all night in a glass.

  March and April get egg-whisked in a froth

  like the disparity between tube time

  and real time—Ruislip 1 min

  that’s really 5—the train’s that close

  but brought to an unscheduled stop.

  I run the day inside my veins

  like arterial track before it starts.

  Things anticipated happen that way

  in predictable bits, I met you babe

  by converting accidental misses

  into a chancy actuality,

  the edgy sightings, broken eye contact

  cohering into quick uptake.

  I bit your lip the second day

  like pulping a plump raspberry.

  Time’s edited, the tube’s immobilised

  between stations—5 minutes stuck,

  1 minute in proximity away.

  Astronauts sighting Earth above the Moon

 

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