Rhythm and Hues: ‘whoop-de-doo’

'whoop-de-doo'

‘whoop-de-doo’

A rhymester writes

I was always set to do

Something along these lines

The ‘whoop-de-doo’

A mission statement

My coat of arms

A calling card

A visual cue

The sonic signature

Of a guy who does

The ‘whoop-de-doo’

It’s attitude and life-style for a man

Who wants to mesmerise you

So listen to the little guy

Who is a shadow, you’re counterpart

When he whistles and coo’s

Aware that he’s been tickled by

The ‘whoop-de-doo’

There’s no hiding nor shame

In a continuous rhythm

That settles in the mind

Colours the blood

And fills all your waking spaces

With ‘whoop-de-doo’

On hearing Leonard Cohen’s new album, ‘Popular Problems’

Popular Problems

Popular Problems

 

Reconcile yourself with the past

Buy some music from the mouth

Of a man who knows

Whose words rode over you decades ago

When even flesh wounds were deep

Tears were squeezed out of innocent pores

For the loss that the future already knew

Weighed heavily on that version of me

 

I could taste the void

The useless beauty

That would be the gulf

Between now and then

An ocean of lies

The dark passing echoes of closed doors

A concertina of blurred emotions

Emerge now

 

To his voice which sounds embalmed

Dark, grainy and spiritual

Stripped of peripheral notes

Unnecessary harmony

Just carrying flesh on articulate bones

Stretched to near the end

And still he makes sense

Of the solitary in me.

Another Mixed Double

Another mixed double

Mixed Doubles

 

I take pictures. It’s what I do. Then they sit with me. A living history. Fragments of time I have consumed, shared and stolen. It is a privilege to have these moments at my command. I don’t wish to waste or abuse them. The element of trust is implicit. I honour these people because they have shared a stage with me. These are fractions, splinters of innocence.

Misnomers or YOLO

GarageMisnomers or YOLO

 

Tribal speak. Wind ushered through broken teeth

Attitude. Another route to memory

 

I am at times insensate

To urgent appeals in tongues

 

I find my feet and my mouth

Engaged in strident notes

 

For meaning has slipped. Gone evasive

Underground with stripes but no braces

 

All actual information camouflaged

Truncated by ‘yoof’

 

I’ll see a line of letters shambling

And struggle for the sense

 

Yet now I know that I’m simply vacant

When it comes to ‘intel’ from young ‘gents’.