There are stories that half of us strain
to hear over the babble of small print.
Broadcast this message to the unheard
and unseen: turn your radio on. You have
one hour. There’s not a minute to lose.
And it’s 1-2-3, what were you fighting
for?
The music of sanity in an insane world.
And it’s 5-6-7, open up the pearly
gates;
the lost patrol of the counterculture is
here,
sounding off one-two in furious ragtime.
There is a silence in the wings, then
the boards creak, bearing the weight
of an entrance. The first line is spoken
in a voice rustling like stage curtains,
billowing out into breathless theatre.
I choose television;
television without fear,
that sings while others shrug,
that shows the idiot in the lantern
before pulling back to show
ourselves in uncomfortable focus.
Welcome to 1619 Broadway, a place
where writers search for Sixteen
among the keys of an old piano,
where songs pay five dollars a line,
but everybody knows them by heart.
I fell into the company of marchers
standing
at the foot of a rainbow, half way
between the
mountain and the ghetto. Their leader
told me
in a voice of fire Progress is not
walking away
from something bad, but marching towards
it.
If this were your poem, it would ring
with authenticity; it would choose its
words with care, deliver them like an
obscure gospel. But this poem is mine,
and if I say it's safe to write this
poem,
then it's safe to write this poem.
Our lives depend on how
the pack splits. Some can
plan the future three shots
ahead; others rattle the jaws
of fate’s pocket, never knowing
where the cue ball may be going.
Let's get your old folk duo back
together
to sing your naive ballads. Let's
go out to a
Dog Show, or an alternative Oscars
where
they give out statues for vanity
and mischief,
where there's no script, but
everybody laughs.
The console lights come on; a hiss
of pneumatics before the 64-footer
clears its throat, audible from
space.
Hands blur across four banks of
keys;
the organist entertains, an
orchestra
of ten fingers and a chorus of
titans.
Three taps on the rim of a snare,
and it can only be you. The skins
pulse to the riddim of your blood;
beat leaves holes in the studio
air.
A taut roll as the last track
begins;
nothing could ever sound so good.
A voice comes through the
heat-haze,
telling a billion stories of a
billion lives,
separating truth from myth to
camera,
reporting the spirit of a distant
people,
unpicking the knotted braids of a
nation.
Let me tell you about my years in
Cubeville;
how I learned to fail better and
fail faster;
how I escaped before they found me
out.
Let me tell you about the
unspeakable man
in the corner who saw all; who
sketched me
and a million lives in caricatures
of drudgery.
You said someday a fiery bird
would return
to take you home, that its
silver-suited pilots
would call you by your cosmic
name. I saw
an image of your life viewed from
altitude;
a face looking skyward, wanting to
believe.
You can learn a lot of things
about women
from racy novels; most of it
untrue. A day
browsing in a boutique is more
instructive;
trends wax and wane but the life
you think
suits you best is always just out
of reach.
I was in love with the idea of a
woman,
a creation in medium shot, half
insoluble,
half incendiary. Eventually, the
camera
caught her in close-up, a picture
of
disfigurement I once mistook for
beauty.
Just when I thought the song was
over,
a voice like a bank of smog rolled
in,
fogging the road with a grey
wisdom,
a melody it would be so easy to
ignore,
driving to a place we cannot
follow.
Met a guy at the Electric Banana
who offered me a part in his
movie;
maybe waiting tables, an extra in
a
courtroom scene, a lonely
novelist.
I asked what he wanted from me;
I want answers, he said. I
want truth.
We are all middlebrow now,
in thrall to he said she said,
the touchable worlds of love,
whether imagined or illicit,
or sometimes even true.
Someone should write this
down; we may be touched by
the significance of small things.
Welcome to the extravaganza;
Hollywood in a Glasgow studio,
a man with a thousand voices,
none of them his own, and yet
all of them. Parliamo
Tinseltown,
parliamo the lingua
franca of joy.