while we were in england over the holiday, ryan and i did our best at staying up late and waking up even later--an ill attempt at remaining on american time?--and one of the consequences of this was watching old performances on "Top of the Pops" (the british american bandstand, i guess). one of the more memorable performances was "The Funky Gibbon" song. this is one of those novelty songs that never caught on. my guess as to why it never caught on is that it's awful. well, aside from the fact that the three men singing the song looked like gibbons themselves, the group had Nothing going for them, the song was too long to be cute, and the dance sucked.
aside from late night tv programming (which, even in glorious england has dramatic faults), the only other not-so-nice thing about our trip was the flight over. ryan was nervous about immigration to the point of being incapable of just about anything beyond hugging and holding my bag when i asked him (it's a very cute sort of pathetic, i'll admit). on top of that i had one of my worst times on a plane.
everything else about the trip--even the longer flight back to the states and the real test of immigration laws--was perfect. i'd venture to say that this was one of my best christmas's to date. i know it was ryan's best, and defiantly his mum's best.
this year was different, it was all about the people. ryan, his sister and her husband, ryan's dad and myself all conspired to surprise ryan's mum with the one thing she really wanted, and the one thing she knew she couldn't have--for her son to show up at her front door on christmas. what a sweet wish to begin with! all's she wanted was her whole family to be together. and what's more, it happened to be ryan's grandad's 80th birthday on boxing day. the opportunity to surprise her and the grandparent's was too great to pass up so ryan and i booked our holiday as soon as possible and had been holding our tongues up until the surprise itself.
we flew into manchester to visit ryan's old stomping grounds, to meet up with a few friends and to make a special pilgrimage to the coveted Pizza Co (great news, they're expanding!!). one of the men that run pizza co actually remembered ryan and asked him why he hadn't been in for such a long time. ryan told him he'd moved to americaland and that, after having a pizza, it was the best pizza he'd had in almost 2 years, which i think really made that man's day, if not year. merry christmas pizza co.
it didn't hurt that kerry and richard (ryan's sister and spouse) live in manchester and were able to pick us up and then later drive us to derby for the christmas surprise.
when we got to derby ryan and i went stealth and hid out of sight until kerry and richard delivered their line about having gotten mum something they couldn't wrap. the instant she saw ryan the tears turned on and she covered her face in disbelief. it was the perfect reaction. she kissed and hugged him and cried and by the time we got inside she had us sat on either side of her holding onto us to make sure we were really there. and then we all got to tell her about all the plans and conspiring that had gone on--that the goose was ryan's request, that we'd had the tickets since august and so on.
grandma reacted the same way the day after when she and grandad arrived. grandad just called me the sneaky one the whole weekend :)
goose is really nice; let that be known. and the real meaning of christmas is dessert... i mean family and dessert. honestly, the reason this christmas was so wonderful was because we were all there together and the presents didn't matter one way or the other (though mum, being a mum ran out as soon as she could and bought ryan and i lots of prezies to unwrap on christmas morning).
there's a lovely few pictures of the whole group of us that ryan's doctoring a bit (richard had his eyes closed for the best picture of everyone else...) which i'll put here once they're ready. i'm also composing a list of things i love about britain (not sure, yet, how long it will be though) and i have a pile of poems that i wrote on the plane and before the journey which i'll type up and display here.
hopefully this new year's celebration will be just as lovely. i'm going to kick everyone's butts at that zombie board game and then run really far away when ryan breaks out the karaoke game...
happy new year everyone
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
english crimbo
so i spent christmas in england (couldn't explicitly post that prior to leaving because heaven forbid ryan's mum reading my blog and finding out, thus, spoiling her uber christmas surprise) and while i was there i managed to take a few pictures of my favorite building in the universe, the lovely and well loved Victoria Baths. i've written a poem about this particular building (Tower and Gentleman) which was previously posted on this blog. here are those pics anyway...
i'll post more about my trip as well as the bits of poetry i wrote on the airplane there and back soon... at the moment though... *eyes half open* i'm let jaggeding
i'll post more about my trip as well as the bits of poetry i wrote on the airplane there and back soon... at the moment though... *eyes half open* i'm let jaggeding
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
holiday
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clockwise starting from the top left is Ryan (my boyo), myself, rachel, bunny and finally adam.
we got together because rachel has been in belfast for the past 4 or so months. there ought to have been more of us there but communication between so many people on such short notice doesn't always result in mass gatherings. it was easier when we all lived in the same house. anyway, it was a lovely night, just hanging out, talking about gay bars, how bunny now lives with a stripper and watching adam use a wine-bottle opener to destroy innocent grapes.
---------------------------------------------------------
it's the holy-days ladies and fine gentlemen,
so my blog is dormant for a week or so.
but i promise poems and joy will return.
the very merry best to you all (those fine few who visit),
xoxo
Monday, December 19, 2005
remember me not
.
remember me not
for where the color seeps through
but for the black that surrounds us
for the photographer's tongue
and the poet's lense
.
originally posted here
also see
remember me not
for where the color seeps through
but for the black that surrounds us
for the photographer's tongue
and the poet's lense
.
originally posted here
also see
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
bead
my fingers smell after you
as we, the rejected few,
declare a dramatic love affair.
my hair grows longer
as your face grows thinner
and we are lost in eyes
deeply set in on some truth,
some sound or some food.
with no resolution,
we are resolved to this string
of whispers in the dark
on some unholy marriage bed.
as we, the rejected few,
declare a dramatic love affair.
my hair grows longer
as your face grows thinner
and we are lost in eyes
deeply set in on some truth,
some sound or some food.
with no resolution,
we are resolved to this string
of whispers in the dark
on some unholy marriage bed.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
an ode to frank o'hara
she's the woman you want, Frank O’Hara,
between the beige sheets of your bed in the morning.
she'll tell you how she thinks Hesiod
was just a scared Benjamin Franklin.
then she'll listen when you tell her
that the poet she should be concerned with
is not Hesiod at all, but another Greek.
she'll offer you Echinacea to go with you ciggy and beer
as she stands there naked and smiling.
you'll want to touch her as she moves,
she's soft and young.
she's soft but fueled.
she's dedicated to you.
she's the kind of lady you'll want
to dance with when you're drunk and stuttering.
she'll laugh and lead you in any steps.
trust me, she's the right girl to take home to your mother.
she'll help cook and clean
without intruding on family traditions.
you should be willing to sleep on your own sofa
so that she gets a handsome night sleep in your old bedroom.
she might get upset when you tell her
you slept with another man
but she's still in love with you after all.
she'll sleep in your bed, in your house,
whether you're there or not,
and she won't stop until you tell her to go home.
be kind to her Frank O’Hara,
there are so few of these true lovers left in the world today,
especially in your city of art.
she'll want to move to a beach house but won't,
not without you, she says, and you'll believe her,
and make her stay for the night.
you can lie together, just you O’Hara
and this little minx of knowledge and eye power,
and she'll know just where to touch you—
to make you shiver.
this should be your favorite part,
she'll talk in her sleep,
more so after sex than usual,
and she'll share her secrets with you then.
she'll tell you she trusts you.
that's when you can tell her you know she loves you.
she's the kind of girl you want to love.
tell her that. tell her you want to love her.
that you know all her secrets
and that it's okay to love you for now.
give her a kiss like you've never given before
but don't touch her.
later you'll hug her, hold her,
feel her melt in your dirty arms
covered in the city's charcoal dust
and smeared with pastel.
she's the only girl you want to know,
but you still wish she was a man
so she could be your best friend,
then you wouldn't need to know anyone else.
you'll fall in love with her body
because of the way she touches you with it.
she loves you with it.
don't tell your mother anything about her before,
just bring her there.
she's the kind of lady your mother will love
(she'll wish she was her daughter)
then your mother will ask you while you're alone
if you plan to marry her.
you have your mother's blessings.
don't sleep with her that night
no matter how much her smile turns you on,
wait until your back at your flat,
back between your well-worn sheets.
she'll ask you to leave the big window shades open
so she can see the city stars while you make love to her.
she might cry now and again, but only when she's happy.
if she tells you she's pregnant don't ask her who the father is.
you know she'd only ever sleep with poets.
the baby would be yours, if you had her Frank O’Hara.
she is your Byzantium;
the kind of woman you should have had.
__________________________________________________________
an oldie but a goodie. i must have written this at least 3 years ago. not bad though really.
between the beige sheets of your bed in the morning.
she'll tell you how she thinks Hesiod
was just a scared Benjamin Franklin.
then she'll listen when you tell her
that the poet she should be concerned with
is not Hesiod at all, but another Greek.
she'll offer you Echinacea to go with you ciggy and beer
as she stands there naked and smiling.
you'll want to touch her as she moves,
she's soft and young.
she's soft but fueled.
she's dedicated to you.
she's the kind of lady you'll want
to dance with when you're drunk and stuttering.
she'll laugh and lead you in any steps.
trust me, she's the right girl to take home to your mother.
she'll help cook and clean
without intruding on family traditions.
you should be willing to sleep on your own sofa
so that she gets a handsome night sleep in your old bedroom.
she might get upset when you tell her
you slept with another man
but she's still in love with you after all.
she'll sleep in your bed, in your house,
whether you're there or not,
and she won't stop until you tell her to go home.
be kind to her Frank O’Hara,
there are so few of these true lovers left in the world today,
especially in your city of art.
she'll want to move to a beach house but won't,
not without you, she says, and you'll believe her,
and make her stay for the night.
you can lie together, just you O’Hara
and this little minx of knowledge and eye power,
and she'll know just where to touch you—
to make you shiver.
this should be your favorite part,
she'll talk in her sleep,
more so after sex than usual,
and she'll share her secrets with you then.
she'll tell you she trusts you.
that's when you can tell her you know she loves you.
she's the kind of girl you want to love.
tell her that. tell her you want to love her.
that you know all her secrets
and that it's okay to love you for now.
give her a kiss like you've never given before
but don't touch her.
later you'll hug her, hold her,
feel her melt in your dirty arms
covered in the city's charcoal dust
and smeared with pastel.
she's the only girl you want to know,
but you still wish she was a man
so she could be your best friend,
then you wouldn't need to know anyone else.
you'll fall in love with her body
because of the way she touches you with it.
she loves you with it.
don't tell your mother anything about her before,
just bring her there.
she's the kind of lady your mother will love
(she'll wish she was her daughter)
then your mother will ask you while you're alone
if you plan to marry her.
you have your mother's blessings.
don't sleep with her that night
no matter how much her smile turns you on,
wait until your back at your flat,
back between your well-worn sheets.
she'll ask you to leave the big window shades open
so she can see the city stars while you make love to her.
she might cry now and again, but only when she's happy.
if she tells you she's pregnant don't ask her who the father is.
you know she'd only ever sleep with poets.
the baby would be yours, if you had her Frank O’Hara.
she is your Byzantium;
the kind of woman you should have had.
__________________________________________________________
an oldie but a goodie. i must have written this at least 3 years ago. not bad though really.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
stage hand
some romantic sod
in black in blue in love
with being left out
waiting on a couch
for his princess
her orange hair glittering
he imagines her breasts
then he imagines her breath
he checks his own
behind the high.school stage
on left over furniture
their love happens
-------------------------------------
just a little something to keep you warm tonight.
in black in blue in love
with being left out
waiting on a couch
for his princess
her orange hair glittering
he imagines her breasts
then he imagines her breath
he checks his own
behind the high.school stage
on left over furniture
their love happens
-------------------------------------
just a little something to keep you warm tonight.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
always a poet
he is always a poet;
my gentle man—
my R
_____my A
__________my W
one in three deceiving faces
hidden beneath words like a bed spread.
will you seduce me tonight?
i wrote it on a batman napkin
left over from a little boy's birthday party.
do I wait for a reply,
or will you surprise me?
bring me a white petal.ed rose
and wear that scarf i bought last winter?
he is always a poet;
take a seat beside me, will you whisper?
tell me true stories of women and men?
a warm palm against my cold cheek;
the battle between man and wind;
the prize is a tribute, a front row seat,
or an autumn of burning trees
and real mud.
he is always a poet
he comes to me like a moth,
too long at the flame;
in my arms burned, crisp with no voice
left to beat his wings.
my men of song;
always, they are poets
at the podium in front of a woman
and wavering, these gentle men,
these paper dolls with no clothes on.
------------------------------------
thank you dear arch.memory for your recommendation for this title. you're right.
my gentle man—
my R
_____my A
__________my W
one in three deceiving faces
hidden beneath words like a bed spread.
will you seduce me tonight?
i wrote it on a batman napkin
left over from a little boy's birthday party.
do I wait for a reply,
or will you surprise me?
bring me a white petal.ed rose
and wear that scarf i bought last winter?
he is always a poet;
take a seat beside me, will you whisper?
tell me true stories of women and men?
a warm palm against my cold cheek;
the battle between man and wind;
the prize is a tribute, a front row seat,
or an autumn of burning trees
and real mud.
he is always a poet
he comes to me like a moth,
too long at the flame;
in my arms burned, crisp with no voice
left to beat his wings.
my men of song;
always, they are poets
at the podium in front of a woman
and wavering, these gentle men,
these paper dolls with no clothes on.
------------------------------------
thank you dear arch.memory for your recommendation for this title. you're right.
morning child (draft 3)
the pull down at the corner of a bed sheet
hidden behind morning locks, the glass reflection
of your morning beard, and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through your dreams;
and the distinct smell of picture books
filled your heart or some other appendage.
this unfinished heaven; this holy bed spread;
the innocence of a little boy's curiosity;
became her unholy battle field against you
and a million secrets left under the mattress.
hidden behind morning locks, the glass reflection
of your morning beard, and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through your dreams;
and the distinct smell of picture books
filled your heart or some other appendage.
this unfinished heaven; this holy bed spread;
the innocence of a little boy's curiosity;
became her unholy battle field against you
and a million secrets left under the mattress.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
morning child + revision =
hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye;
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desecration of his bed of innocents,
of exploration and of a million secrets,
revealed her as a break from morning rituals.
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye;
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desecration of his bed of innocents,
of exploration and of a million secrets,
revealed her as a break from morning rituals.
Friday, December 02, 2005
revision
as in some cases, revisions can suck the life out of a piece... my heart hurts with every tiny addition and subtraction...
morning child is in ruins...
hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desicration of this bed of innocents,
of exploration and a million secrets
left him ...
and i haven't got the propper energy to help it.
you see, i've been trying on some suggestions from the critical poetry forum (a fantastic place with the most beautifully honest and sensitive peers). unfortunatly for morning child, i considered it a finished piece, so when the news came to me that it was everything but, and that the grammar got in the way of people enjoying it... uhge.
i love the way the original sounds, it's beautiful to hear and taste, it's abstract and meaningful... but, maybe i'm wrong.
i'll keep it updated here. hopefully something magnificant will grow out of it.
blah with revision on this... blah blah blah
(okay, i could be tired is all)
morning child is in ruins...
hidden behind morning locks, a glass reflection
of his morning beard and the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in his good eye.
last night turned unfairly complicated
as she moved through his childhood dreams
and the distinct smell of picture books.
the desicration of this bed of innocents,
of exploration and a million secrets
left him ...
and i haven't got the propper energy to help it.
you see, i've been trying on some suggestions from the critical poetry forum (a fantastic place with the most beautifully honest and sensitive peers). unfortunatly for morning child, i considered it a finished piece, so when the news came to me that it was everything but, and that the grammar got in the way of people enjoying it... uhge.
i love the way the original sounds, it's beautiful to hear and taste, it's abstract and meaningful... but, maybe i'm wrong.
i'll keep it updated here. hopefully something magnificant will grow out of it.
blah with revision on this... blah blah blah
(okay, i could be tired is all)
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