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| Absolutely |
| Culture Shock |
| Groundsweat |
I am
the one, who is not,
to be petitioned.
I, too, have got the numbers,
of those who follow
the heaving crowds and believe
the proffered word.
Playback
the nightly sell outs
and monitor
the volume of outrage to the still
small voice
fading
from the master in the mix.
Contradiction is not a word
to entertain
in the role of the divine,
but through the medium of the applause
I confirm
your subscription cancelled
to the resurrection.
From the other side,
of curtain calls and the sirens
wailing,
the water of your baptism
rises steadily
above your ears.
Encore, you have finally
broken through.
Charles Measures
Taken from the author's book, Rural, Rock'n the Ridiculous (ISBN 1-905529-87-2).
I was not expecting this,
life as I knew it coming to an end
at the crossroads, in the High street,
during the middle of the school run,
in Epsom,
market town of horse racing
and retired army colonels.
A pulsating tremor
vibrating through my 4 x 4
suggesting:
a stampede of elephants rampaging
through the town, in search of peanuts,
on limited offer, in jumbo buckets,
promoted by the Odeon:
the world's largest squadron of 747s
thundering, low level overhead
with Richard Branson, practising
fuel conservation:
the synchronetic collapse of the forest
of scaffolding outside Sony and Pizza Hut,
in sympathy with the pavement,
being trampled underfoot:
the final madness and crescendo,
before
the gong of oblivion.
The overwhelming feeling
that King Kong had crash-landed
behind my vehicle and was stomping
to the rhythm of a MotorHead track,
three days into its ending.
This repetitious thump
punching my seat into my back.
The mechanical permutations of my track
rod end being buried in the sump.
The menace of black tinted windows,
looming
in my rear-view mirror,
embedded in something
resembling a bat-mobile with serious
metal-fatigue.
Inside, some dude and his bitch
were slapping
the steering wheel, the dashboard
themselves, each other,
on their way to the weekly shop
for groceries.
Their hands too unsteady
from all those chilled vibes exploding,
in the bowels of their thunder-box,
to place a coin in the slot,
for a supermarket trolley.
Charles Measures
Taken from the author's book, Rural, Rock'n the Ridiculous (ISBN 1-905529-87-2).
The clarity of the passing bell
recedes, like snowbones
in the groundsweat coating
upon the winter leaves.
The palms of cobwebs stretched,
across the barren pores of strangled
gorse.
As resolute,
as the blacksmith's hammered blows,
beside the furnace sparks,
the numbered years, in wrapped conclusion,
struck steady in its metered tongue:
heads lifting in the furrowed fields.
Cold eyed pennies placed beyond
the tollbar's reach.
Seasons turning round, within its wooden
cask, the grandfather clock stands,
guard upright, in its vigil beside the door.
The sentry's swinging march resounds
as footsteps across the hall, retiring
up the stairs.
The unhinged bag of superstition
disposed
at the wake-woman's practised craft.
Charles Measures
Taken from the author's book, Rural, Rock'n the Ridiculous (ISBN 1-905529-87-2).