Details |
Dave Sealey Poem
========== O
Monday night. Moving magazines. Aimed dead at killing an evening, my fingers target =========
These same old four buttons; < < > >.
1, 2, 3, 4. Five’s a pipedream. Gaudy, small-minded and trapped in affected Americana.
Just like whatever the hell this is. Too much smiling.
====== > Diseases. An old man’s mouldy cock. Right there, mid-screen. Mid-bite, I choke,
as they mumble about vulvas
======== > A dog rolls in a mound of white paper. Whimpering at the softest **** tickle.
Like his little tongue? He’s running! With T.P! The Hilarity! Ho ho
======= > A mother and daughter swing together on a sunny day. One is singing like a
xylophone. They bond across a yoghurt.
Processed fried chicken cracked open with a wry smile and a twinkle in those white, white
eyes
======= < Psoriasis and bubbling skin, oozing puss and cracked smiles. Bloody stumps.
Dripping bandages. Wild premonitions of vomiting onto;
======= > A familiar street, full of families too awful to hate. Bald men stomp, cheeky
guy’s grin, heart throb’s pulsate. Young filly’s flounce, old hag’s huddle and all moan
mournfully. Other’s pass in between, and outside of, the broad spectrum of emotional
alliteration and post-modern punctuation without so much as a smile ==== >
Kevin Bacon and Kyr =========== > Michael Dougl
========= > Widescreen TV’s at my fifteen inch window
========= > A man with a silly haircut, waving a knife at a pepper with intent
========= < Crying mothers, acting emotional. So you don’t have to?
=============== > Women in windows waving enhanced monstrosities at the wanking and eager.
Tittilitation for the text buck, a half-filled screen of despair. Tribute to the madness
that grips young men through the night
========= > Still, writing this keeps me sane. More sadness
======= > More sales
============ > ============= >
============ <
That’s a thought these images do not create ==== >
That’s a thought.
These images do not create ======== O
Copyright © Dave Sealey | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Dave Sealey Poem
White cars stationary on their roofs blocking rural arteries whilst severing others
Unexpected loss of vertical hold and bodily functions frozen in the failing headlights
Beautiful greenery ablaze, beside the twisted wreckage of man.
A movement shakes away broken glass and the tarmac writhes free of the terrible pictures
Running on the wide screen’s of my mind. Dripping petrol explosions and decapitation,
Gruesome pictures I dreamt up while reality passed the windscreen and
I, I sat there screaming inside.
Luminous blue and an echoing voice rouse me from that dangerous moment,
The phone weighs in once again in my hand. I’m rambling, or worse, but I get the message out
And the comfort of my task ends with the depressed red button as
The door clicks open
A familiar face brings mind of the other and I’m out into the cold darkness
Stepping slowly toward a nightmare vision that grew up in the dusk
I find her and for a second we’re back laughing and smiling. Over her shoulder I see
The groupings of people that sprung up from hedgerows, their halogen shadows
Merged with the darkness of the incident. The car is much too white.
Too strange an angle, yet there they sit
Tingling on the verge of the roaring tributary
And casually stemming the tide
Copyright © Dave Sealey | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Dave Sealey Poem
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
Copyright © Dave Sealey | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Dave Sealey Poem
Bill beat them to death. Verbose and belligerent, banal and brilliant, Hicks would beat
you with a joke until you weren’t sure it was funny any more. But you’d still laugh.
Advertising advocates he indicated, would be best dealt with through suicide. Like
lemmings, but really jumping.
Clearly he can’t have so concisely come down on those poor cretins alone. Blasting and
berating the bourgeoisie, leaving no stone unturned. Advocating erogenous interaction and
nature’s narcotics never felt so fresh.
He cut a legendary figure, shining in mono on the stage, an anti-hero in the spotlight,
questioning the questionable and querying great quandaries for our bite-sized attention
spans. All joking asides and jeering anecdotes. The great, the goat, Gods and grass
gripped us throughout.
In his own immortal words, life is just a ride. Rails and loops, dips and troughs. Thrills
and chills.
Bill’s the ticket inspector. Taking names and kicking ass.
Copyright © Dave Sealey | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Dave Sealey Poem
Tradition
Religion
Our flight plan repetition
Dead people’s luggage clogs the runways of the mind.
Terrorism
Fundamentalism
Synonymous with the blind, the needless
Handles snap and you bind them?
Grounded forever in the baggage of your kind,
Tied up in tales of better times
Tradition
Religion
Recognition
Think again.
Copyright © Dave Sealey | Year Posted 2008
|
Details |
Dave Sealey Poem
You feel it in every sentence
You wear it on your sleeve
You paint with it, long strokes and curves
You sing with shades of passion and
You feel it shudder with every shadowy footfall echoing out of sight
You counterfeit it and shout the news from rooftops
You place it in a flag
You write it into every verse
You feel it beat with foreign rhythm
You feel safe when it knows the key
You colour phrases and it beats a rainbow in the roof of your mouth
You pay with it for every botched line and dropped note
You choose to paint your heart on your sleeve
Your curse; to bear it for all to see
Copyright © Dave Sealey | Year Posted 2008
|