Long Skateboards Poems
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I grew up in Bath in the nineteen nineties
wearing short shorts over tighty whities,
while Bath were champions of English Rugby,
a beautiful city farfetched from ugly.
We played on Stilts and had Yo-Yo's,
skateboards with logo's,
Tamagotchi's, Slinkys and Pogo Sticks,
a string tied to sticks for Diablo tricks.
A lot wobbled, we played Wall Ball,
Smarties packets caused trouble.
Political Correctness didn't exist yet,
we wore Reebok, Fila or Hi-Tec.
We had Roller Skates, later Roller Blades,
out on the concrete in the streets we played,
as there were always lots of parking spaces,
space we used for running races.
We played Bulldogs Charge on repeat,
never stopping for the rain or sleet.
We played Wembley, or Heads, Volleys and Beats,
playing in the street our daily treat.
We played Kirby because kirbs were free,
40 40 in, also called Alien,
front gardens were a great WWF ring,
or we'd hit tennis balls tied to string.
Jumpers for goalposts,
or one and a lamppost,
cheated as we'd peek
playing Hide And Seek.
We played Knock Knock Ginger with its hiding,
or we'd get out our bikes and go riding.
We went Garden Hopping, never stopping,
played in the dark after the suns dropping.
We had Master Systems, Mega Drives or Nintendo's,
but were not reliant on technology inside,
we built Lego stadiums, played Subbuteo,
we collected sticker books, Pog's and trading cards with pride.
There was a fuzziness to Radio and TV,
we'd always sneak a peek at Page 3,
we watched films on VHS, played Cassettes or CD's,
or Conkers when they dropped from trees.
We only had four television channels to be flicking,
Saturday mornings were for Live and Kicking.
Bodger and Badger, The Chuckle Brothers, Rosie and Jim,
but you couldn't beata, bit of Blue Peter,
to Neighbours and Home and Away we tuned in.
When home alone emptied living rooms,
played football inside, 2-a-side,
cleaned up damage with brooms,
when parents got home we lied.
I'm proud I grew up in the nineties in Bath,
we had so much fun, so many laughs.
From no other time and place I'd rather be,
so here's to the nineties in the West Country.
Petrified pottery ponders plots. Ploys play putting purring. And a frantically fraternising pickle arch can glow on many a skyline at dusk. In many hues. Many dusks many arches many hues and many hues mean many hundreds and many hundreds mean invite to investment of innermost inherited insectivorous institutionalised ignorant ignoramus's ingots'. But glowing of an ear bug is common in a torque typed torture chamber and a chamber is not a champion nor a charred crispy cross crossed conifer. Camels that eat hard cheese are said to be better prophets than penguins on skateboards. Fornicating false frocks falsely fall. And a little black and grey horse was speaking kindly to a tiny ball of fur which turned out to be a mouse name but cat in shape and body. How rather cruel! And derogatory too. Yet the smirking slug like actions secreting slime of a prawn headed monster with many man tentacles' and tentacles are terror and definitely not treacle treading treats. Salivate not a big bit of pie then? Fir pie is a composition of sorts types and kinds and akin to a pulsating ball of confused idiosyncratic ideological wisdom of orders originating from a glass bottom jug which weighs forty two kilos and cost eleven cities, two million towns, twenty thousand small villages, and ten hamlets. These are in a deposit global zone. A whirl of supposed suppository suppers in stupors seen but senseless. It is wise to break a mould then to create a new work for the art show shower. And bathe before baking the perimeter of pie. For pie without radius is a ravishing radish reaching radii. And how polite is a polish then? No ha no x and a big x to it as well. And one should always dangle mirrored glasses while wearing a sun hat and riding a one centimetre bull down the tidal bores. Z refurbishment z at two hens to twenty one ducks at half time. Z
Form:
part 2 of 2
8 No Love in the Heart of Town
Hot summer day
Fetty Wap heavy rotates
Done pretendin' to find a God charades
Besides feelin' not havin to try, nothin's changed
Jumped in 1 after another place
Robbed different ways
Just lookin' for that hazy summer lake, under the tree shade
9 Sunset
Frequencies and wavelengths
Through certain rivers human waste fish
Grassland swamp gasses on the way out the Secaucus train lift
I guess for what time'll forget to say, you shouldn't've waited
10 Texts
Your skin's got tanned more than a bit beige
Past this time before we've stayed
It's already dark
A mess my room and head are
I'm just layin' down in bed
The air conditioner's to the coldest set
My phone plays music that I'm listenin' to on my chest
This heart pumps the sqwak's of seagulls at sundown but you could feel the stress
Then as well, the smallests of moments spent'll carry on in our steps
A couple of flashbacks stuck of what you had said
I reach for the chilled water and receive a notification of 1 of your texts
We met the loneliest of nights in a cold winter
Those summer vibes have been 'er
She's a girl just like you but brown
Ever findin' her I'm not sure of in my small town
11 Anime
Iriko dashi in the air from a miso soup steam
On a table's unsweetened green tea
Black wave curl locks shag on tan skin
Black, a bit round and square frames tipped over half shut brown eye's lids
A light grey hoodie and burgundy joggers transition from Osaka to skater fit
12 Skateboards, Weed and Rap
"Yo, yo, it's the cops, run's!" not what i ever tried to hear
Gettin' busted for somethin' so mere?
How times wasted findin' better deals, you'd think it took place by the piers
Now, it's not so much of the dream it would be, that it's near
Down the river
Far from the emptied swimming pools
Far from skateboards
Down the cold, foaming river
Sitting, reclined in a floating rubber tire
Skin tanned from summer sun
T-shirt stained from farm work
Dirt, mud, sticks, fire
All muddle your shirts colors
Your mouth full of smoke
In your hand, a rolled paper smoke
In your top coat pocket, three more stand
Resting like bullets in the chamber
The sides of your coat, dripping wet
Dragging behind you in the water
There you sit
Farmlands can be seen in both eyes
Yellow grass, red barns
White silos with blue caps
Green tractors
There in those barns
Moonshine is made
Squeezed from the fruits of autumn
There, in those barns
Secret plants are grown
Little laboratories are set up
A mix of white doctors tables
And the smell of hay
The river keeps pulling you forward
The sky blue like deep water
Clouds with foamy shapes
Metal can of lemon juice in your spare hand
Its sharp lid bent to one side
Cold with ice that jingles like pocket keys
This is a good trip
Not psychedelic or anything
Just calm
Just relaxed
Just right for floating
Fish underneath you
Swimming against the current
Their bodies the color of clay
The rocks around them
The same color but covered with snails
Moss green snails
Plate sized painted turtles paddle along
Their eyes striped with yellow
Their shells the color of dried pumpkin fire
A puff off your wrapped paper smoke
A new wave of sleepy muscles
Of new ideas and new questions
But mostly of calm enjoyment
Another puff as you keep floating down
The river goes for miles more, so you will too
yo alex wadup,first off my apolige,couldnt make ur wake,or see your family,cuz when u died i was in denile for a year at least,i still talk to u in prayer,hope u hear it chief,seems like yesterday we would just ride out,all of us skateboards bmx meet at my house,skate thru town gather the whole crew,u still the best flip trickin the 6 set this is so true,*****we would start skate spots and hate cops,remeber cape cod? i still got the sun spots,listen to dmx the whole trip it was dumb hott,skidmore the saratogain wendys,i still run them blocks,congress park were we d congergate and stop,chad muska ghetto blasting the party never stopped,i ll never forget when my mom caught us smokin her marb butts,we was bout 13 back in day be4 starbucks,or the blue bowl first time i got stoned,sorry we lost touch when i went to the group home,how quick we grew up and left home,*****wasnt right now i miss that u left homes,yet this earth is evil,i know when i leave it to i will see you,have bud and drinks ready u know how we do,*****remeber lake placid,we waxed every curb coulnd pass it,and the tree house still spray painted,anarchy signs and gang related,im glad we tagged the inside u were fam just not related,we had fun and bleed together,*****some days wish we were dead together,but i carry on just for my sons sake,dam dog pretty much everyone fake,rich still locked 6 years now,but i gotta stop writting cant control the tears now.....i love u bro i ll never forget you
Form:
Happy Endings
A long day in the office is just a prelude
to the kaleidoscopic formations
gathered beneath store front close out sales
and pigeon feathers as I head for the station,
the five o’clock hopefully on time
Strolling down the naked street,
I follow brick facades and paint chipped doorways,
listening to music from open windows above,
static to the sleeping trios
with silenced violins in cases of quarters
Whiskey bottle wind chimes
tinkle on the curb in high pitched sonatas
floating on waters from washed dogs and cars,
denting front lawns in tread mark stupidity
as the city pulls out the stops
Sirens join in the festivities,
out of tune with hopes for happiness,
but running red lights just the same
as envious teenagers fall from death metal
logo’d skateboards, tearing already torn jeans
And as I wonder why no one smiles anymore,
a yellow cab stops, the back window rolls down
“Need a lift buddy?” and before I can answer
I see her as she pats the seat next to her
and motions me in
As the car pulls away I ask, “Where we headed?”
“To the sunset, I hear it’s beautiful this time of day”
she giggles then leans over and kisses me
“How was your day handsome?” she asks like a song
“Perfect now, I just love happy endings”
What If?
What if guppies and goldfish could swim through the air?
What if birds could only relax by sitting in a chair?
What if spider webs looked like charming bungalows?
What if cheese sticks had to be hunted out in the jungle-os?
What if curtains were carefully hung up in the Maple trees?
What if cookies only came from buzzing little bees?
What if horses were allowed to take rides on our backs?
What if skateboards could take a ride on the rail road tracks?
What if Saturdays came more than just once a week?
What if at your birthday presents you could take a peek?
What if alligators played music every time they’d sneeze?
What if teachers taught Algebra to the chimpanzees?
What if delicious gumballs grew out in the yard?
What if scoring soccer goals wasn’t all that hard?
What if arching rainbows were something you could touch?
What if with each of the colors you could skip Double Dutch?
What if the medicine that the doctor gave you tasted like ice cream?
What if you and your best friend could go to sleep and dream the same dream?
What if all of these things were completely true?
It wouldn’t matter at all to me because I would still love you.
Come and gone like small twister
like the cloud of debris he’s left.
Echoes of Charlie Brown’s buddy Pigpen
blow through the cobwebs in memory.
Left over coffee cups replacing
Transformers still dumped in the attic.
Reams of knarley skateboards, wheel-less,
lay in piles like so much unburnable refuse.
The obligatory hugs and peck, over and done
the never paid chauffeur collapses…
Ah, to have him always near,
So, each kiss was not quite so dear.
The last fair maid on parade has wandered across
the home front, wondering about her predecessor,
still tacked with magnets to the fridge,
still part of my heart and his…
Sons…they say, do not cause such angst.
Couldn’t prove it by this mother.
This maternal blimp of unused helium
was not permitted a girl child.
One did come and fleetingly leave before formed.
We’ll never know the sweetness of her.
Let the image of his manly self disperse, this son..
into the mist as his Father’s has…
to be remembered again, only in times of need, his need,
for to do anything else, would be to rub salt
in an open wound.
Poet: D. Guzzi
*the day after Christmas
dubbed trash by the many &
revered by the few,
sitting on the street curbs &
nesting on the steps
so if ya don’t like what you see
you better
rub em’ till’ they bleed &
waiting on the piggies
strolling long the sidewalk
washing up the storefronts
of all the kids of the future
sick of the present
with skateboards in hand
cigarettes drooping &
a look of fresh new rage
peeling out from their own eyeballs &
we’re on the other side of the street
lighting up the wicks
we got the molotovs blazing &
you know it should’ve been this way
years ago
why we waited oh so long
we’ll never really know
it’s been little by little
day by day
we’ve been walking with our baby steps
gaining momentum like a rolling ball of clay
picking up the dust & the dirt & the scum
i’d rather be down in the sewer any day with the rats
than one minute with the glamourglitz
rolling in a lump sum
because this is where we rumble, ****s,
this-z where we lay it down
we’ve got our wits sharp & our fists ready
our steel toed boots are kicking
towing intel neath’ the underground
reading writing on the walls
setting fire to everything we can
waiting for it to fall.
I've never been good with things.
Electric toothbrushes need a lot of thought,
Some honey jars
need more passion to open then I have.
Putting things together
is not my thing.
I break easy when mending.
I shine at midnight.
My hands
become as flexible as sea anemones.
Words look from my eyes,
or else I tend to fall in love,
with dead dogs, or roadkill.
By morning I am asleep
in my body again.
Skills scream and flee,
as I stumble towards
their small heartbreaking hopefulness.
I am good at twisting things together.
like knotty ropes and thin threads,
people come to me
(mostly the young and naïve),
Arrive riding skateboards through hilly clouds.
They come to admire, my left-handed life,
soon they turn away,
unconvinced
by my slack grasp upon reality,
with the way I insist that their petty wrongs,
are right ways to go.
I try to lead by example - by failing.
Friends let me off easy,
They quietly
cleanup all the odd bits and pieces
that I could not hammer together.
That list keeps getting longer.