 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
DECEMBER 1981
This included 5 pieces from the summer 1979 -
Another Derbyshire/Derbyshire/Nothing
Left/Again/Hero and Hell
Another Derbyshire
You must let me have my parts back - you must not make
me bitty. I am whole. I am. I'm not bitty. I'm not bitter. I sing.
I have a good voice. I'm not ill. I'm really whole. I saw the
lights in the valley, heard the crunch of hikers walking. It
was good. It was better than good. The Robin Redbreast
balanced so prettily. I heard the siren calling the workers
to work. What were they making? Ice cream? It was an ice
cream world with no factories.
There are dogs to complain about. You must
complain....don't ask why. The streets are fastened to the
sky with nails. I remember that the old man died without
speaking - without breathing. Did you see his room? There
are brothels in the old streets. Do you remember who used
to live there? It wasn't anybody. We didn't know them. We
said we knew.
I remember climbing the tower. We didn't pass through any
gates. There wasn't a message on the wall. It changed.
We can't admit to it. I've argued in the car about it. The
wheel turns. It's not anything to talk about. Why talk?
There's a low buzz about, a noise like someone snoring.
You're not interested? I'm not surprised. You will sleep
forever in your ignorance. You may become nothing (as
dawn breaks out). Nonsense. Non - sense! I remember
climbing the tower. We didn't pass through any gates.
They were wrestling on the sticky pavements - fighting
about a girl. I stood about. I didn't need to be involved. I
had to speak. I couldn't say. It was memory time, another
part off the visit. It didn't happen. It was shadows above the
head - imagination building buildings. It's not so bad now.
We don't speak bout it. I don't ask the questions I used to
ask.
Published by the Many Press this small booklet contained one poem by
Kevin who appeared at the festival
Living Life
The python self pity
makes me into mouse-bones
though it must be said
I wear it well:
"Good morning Mr. Pinklehofer."
"Nice day Mrs. Bulwinkle."
You see. I've got a smoothy old smile
(in spite of the piles
and the pimple at the base of
my left buttock)
I can turn it on.
And isn't tat as life should be lived?