Middle aged man in Docs,
vintage leather jacket and
grey haired pubes around his cock.
Ill fitting tour shirts rekindling a hazy past.
Barrowlands, The Bunnymen. Hammersmith Odeon,The Clash.
U2 at University pre Bono crawling up his own ****.
Danced and hugged on stage with Terry Hall,
arrested for d&d outside Bradfords Great Hall,
after watching John Cooper Clarke supporting The Fall.
Life reinvigorated by the post punk explosion,
no longer searching the NME gig guide,
but a Spotify recommendation.
or an even sadder email notification.
A pre gig meal opposed to a walk home pie in a barm.
Ear buds for the tinnitus and Bisoprolol to keep calm.
Heartbreak to watch the talent unrewarded,
by a government devoid of a cultural foresight.
Stifled opportunities
through Tory Brexit lies,
Allowing the corporations of Cowles and the EMI’s to
reap million upon million,
leaving the grassroots unnurtured, venues struggling to stay open.
Our greatest export,
an industry broken.
Categories:
odeon, depression,
Form: Prose Poetry
Almost evening.
The smell of seaweed hanging
on whispers coming up from the beach.
I sit in the backyard, rearranging thoughts,
trying to fit shapes into what's missing
in that vast mosaic I have been piecing
together all my life. The last blush
of the sun fading from the sky, the day
dimming like a picture theater
before the film begins.
I think of the Alberton Odeon matinees,
back stall seats on Saturday afternoons
with wall to wall westerns galloping across
childhood to deafening cheers and stamping feet.
From Hoppalong to Roy, a generation
breathed the smoke from six shooters
blasting out in the black and white world
of cowboys and trusty steeds.
Heroes stood out for their good deeds,
the bad deserving of the bullet
that always found their evil hearts
without the spill of blood. Death was clean,
no more than a crumpled fall,
hands clutching an invisible wound.
The gore was kept off screen. Boyhood
backyards became extensions of motion
picture sets.
I come back. Shadows have swelled
into a thick dark. Awoken from their
daylong sleep, mosquitoes circle my head
like thought clouds in search of blood.
Categories:
odeon, film, nostalgia,
Form: Free verse
Sweet beautiful butterfly that sails the celestial seas,
With narcotizing nuclei that brings me to my knees…
Spreading gaseous light, throughout the multiverses’,
A scintillating sight, where immortal love immerses.
Benevolent butterfly, bring me to Heaven's shore,
Intoxicating the candy eye, with visions to explore…
Gorgeous galactic wings, movement of the spheres,
Clusters of superstrings, nebulas geometric gears.
According to context of Stars, we are all merely dust,
With moons sharing scars and novae ready to combust…
Amongst the Sands of Time, fast fading away to cinders,
Creating a new paradigm, within God's flourishing fingers.
June.11.2019
Nifty Named Nebula's Poetry
Sponsored by: William Kekaula
Pic #1
Music snippet by... Pendulo-Zayrus Selector Odeon
Placed 5'th...Thank You
Categories:
odeon, space, spiritual, stars,
Form: Rhyme
The Language of the Sea .......by Peter Onyancha
I am left in the marriage of one Odeon poet
At dawn there is light deep above the water
In the knowledge I jump ship; I advent
And dip my nervous finger inside
To feel the wetness of the water
I part my lips in awe, oar after oar
I paddle until I hear no echo
For the chubbiness of the waves of the sea
And the sea wives, swinging their waves, hear
That way I speak in a language
That only I and the sea understand
But I have lost my Odeon poet
(This is the 6th stanza of a long poem titled: The uselessness of Poetry)
Categories:
odeon, imaginationlanguage, sea, language, sea,
Form: Free verse
A white city here lies –
a trace of centuries gone.
An old man Heraclitus
awoke freely at dawn.
At the bank of the sea
was a heavenly drop.
In the valley at hills
became ripened its crop.
Great sons of Artemis –
so her wrath to go down –
offered gifts to their miss –
a bleeding girl.
King of all – Alexander
built around a great wall.
Trajan fountain over there
made water fall.
To the Brothel itself,
from the Heracles Gate,
marched a Hellene himself
not afraid of gods` hate.
From far regions away,
from other lots,
brought St. John a God’s word
in the temple of gods.
Marble white shining on,
carcass, pieces and bits.
There is quite Odeon –
its descendants fame is.
Categories:
odeon, history
Form: Rhyme