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Prose, Poetry, Wordage, Life is a dance we must learn Into the night we will turn, Ballroom blitz, We can go where we want to a place where they will never find And we can act like we come from out of this world Leave the real one far behind - and we can dance, I'm gonna add some bottom So that the dancers just won't hide You might like to hear my organ I said ride Sally ride, But when the wearied band swoons to a waltz I take her hand and there we sit in peaceful calm quietly sweating palm to palm. - Aldous Huxley, Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in, Terpsichore Tango, Atomic, I'll stop the world and melt with you, apocalyptic hip-sync
Never Let Me Go
Sinister skies snarl from a distance;
We all shiver in our best shoes.
One shadowy room and its unforgiving
Orange plastic chairs set the scene;
For, out beyond peeling disco balls
And paper chains of hope,
Where Polyester Pollys and Nick Nylons
Hover and glide on sanitiser-slick floors,
Withering gases — careless translucent
Thugs that they are —
Bear hug the metal outer shell
Of this bunker ballroom, blitz-style.
Back inside the beat goes on,
A space packed with eyeballs frenzied;
Glances shot from hip to lip
To fly — beating bullets
Charged and discharged.
Cross hairs head-butt each other
And bounce away, seeking The One
In a pitched battle
To find a beloved,
An unparalleled match to die for.
In the arms of.
Tonight.
Window panes smash in the foyer
Just before our searchlights hit bingo —
Two relieved glances exchanged
Like furloughed flares —
We both made it, here, for the last midnight.
The final finale.
We made it!
Eyes hooked, torsos zipped we waltz,
There’s nothing you and I won’t do
I’ll stop the world and melt with you.
Ten-ton rusty speakers drown out bombshells,
Eclipse isolation decades-long:
Well worth each and every
Dammed self-distanced second,
As the disinfectant-free fantasy
Turns well met in reality.
Outer explosions murder
The surround-sound as we sway;
Still we’re lost in music,
Caught in Goldfrapp,
Lyricists of each other’s metre
Conducting every unfulfilled
Symphony we’ve ever endured,
Dancing on as our world dissolves.
I twirl, whirl, unfurl;
The Clouds become lazy
Pillared pillows of fire.
You dip me backwards laughing;
Hurled shadows of muggers
Paint skinny back streets black.
For this last dance is a diseased countdown;
The legacy built upon
Dysfunctional unmasked masses,
Gluttonous gaudily-robed dead.
But these moves we cut,
This love we trip fantastic
Across our burning deck is glorious;
Hand in hand at last.
And so . . .
Atomistic misappropriations of fun begin;
I say, ‘Hang onto your hat,’
You reply, ‘Hang onto your halo.’
Kissing hard, all our bones fuse
In unsurpassable symmetry;
A perfect shared breath,
Once baited, now held together forever.
We made it babe.
Never let me go.
The Ritz register 😍
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The bouncing sprung ballroom floor! Yes.
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And he wrote this from his bedroom on the first floor, looking out onto the trees which danced under the sinister skies. Far below him in the basement, she sat on the cold floor, head resting on the orange plastic chair. She cried and as her body trembled the chain clamped to her ankle rattled.
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Much as I always love a good old ‘male psychopath rules over female submissive who is a weak trembling lamb being tortured in the basement’ storyline, it isn’t what’s going on here. It’s also written by her, not him, so all the more interesting a swap over. Maybe he’s the one crying in the basement? I do like the inclusion of the orange plastic chair though, that’s a nice touch, also it’s actually in the poem. smiles.
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Well, Tubularsock has to say, Brilliantly expressed and powerful.
However, Tubularsock plans to miss that party. Got reservations on planet ZERO!
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Thank you very much indeed Tubular! That’s as fine a review as I could ask for, truly. And I don’t blame you one bit for heading to Planet Zero, Esme is sticking firmly to the Cloud in these disturbing times (mostly due to all the icing from sticky bun parties of the past).
Esme shaking his goved hand warmly using a hand on a stick she borrowed from the moon.
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This is a superb piece of . . . is ‘prosetry’ the correct term? You have the words dancing in places, your lexical leaps creating an impelling inner rhythm to the heady narrative. Then there are your clever wordplays, such as with Sister Sledge and Goldfrapp — Nile Rodgers Alison (allegedly). Ah, and those ‘atomistic misappropriations’ we all have made in distant pasts: years littered with cellular remnants of stolen kisses and the thieving nuclei of affections. It’s a clever piece of work, Esme, no doubt of it. Many congratulations!
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You’re too kind Hariod! No, you’re just kind enough – laughs– prosetry, yes, not everyone is keen on the term however, I feel it sums up certain kinds of poetry perfectly. I think there should be something similar for when lyrics do the same as the poetry and prose in music can be just as strong, and yet seems perceived as lesser in some way.
Lexical leaps and you ‘found’ my lost in music nod as well beams. You’ve cheered me up no end sir, for I am abed once again, sore swollen tonsils and kitten in mittens weak. I needed a lift. Thank you so very much ❤️
Atomistic Esme dreaming of lexical lifts and sledges happily upon the Cloud
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Ummm, I began narrating your poem in my own, the world famous voice, y’know. I am prepared to argue about it a lot.
Love from Mat @20 stone, covered in spots, fifty.
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‘Love from Mat @20 stone, covered in spots, fifty.‘ – Hahahahahahaha. Rascal. Hmm. Varmit. Pfft. Well then.
I’m pleased to see you which I didn’t anticipate, ya bugger.
If you narrate the poem in your curly tones on the channel tubes for ewes either in person or from behind a large curtain of sorts I shall have ye back. Those are my terms.
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I would do, we could set up a group [v.v.serious]
Spent all day spouting one story for UPLOAD BBC Radio York, we shall see if they accept/reject…?…tho’ ‘Mudland ‘ was actually actually…aired on the radio, months ago after the separation. I was famous about 2 days.
private or publish 🙂
All best
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‘I would do, we could set up a group [v.v.serious]‘ – Yes, I’m up for that. I’m not keen on doing my own wordage outloud, I don’t mind the dog hearing it, she seems to actively enjoy it but otherwise isn’t for me. I have no idea how to do a group YouTube channel mind, but I’m guessing you do.
BBC Radio York, good luck, if you’ve already had radio time they should take more notice. Fame – erk. Private or publish . . . publish, always publish but only after private viewing (not as seedy as it sounds folks) to check out the goods work (ditto).
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Evocative language, though not easy for me to interpret. It has a definite “under siege” or even “last stand as the enemy closes in” feel to it. Perhaps a reflection of your own recent crisis?
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Thank you ,I really appreciate your feedback; I know sometimes my work is a bit knotty, however you’ve caught that which the words hang on and more, regardless, for it is two people dancing as the world burns around them; two who were separated in the chaos some time before but knew a place to meet up, a regular dance night at a parish hall. The others there just want someone to love before they die, but these two are so ecstatic to both have made it before the bombshells hit/the police shoot them for being infected/they die of gas poisoning or the plague that has them etc, that they are laughing, they can see no one else, all their previous pain is eroded – only they exist and they’re going out saturated with love. Which seems a good way to die to me beyond peacefully or incredibly quickly.
My recent danger is just that; the most recent, for I have been close to death a few times, too many times, previously; on the operating table x 3, later in hospital with double pneumonia and more, at home with…it isn’t a jolly thread, you get the gist though I’m sure. It certainly does inspire me; mortality weaves it’s way into my work all the time as do apocalyptic scenarios and dystopian futures (present at present). The world as it stands is on the tips of its toes standing on a cliff edge it feels to me, so along these two came and danced their way to a sublime different place, one all of their own.
-Esme Cloud leaving a slice of home made lemon drizzle cake out for him in gratitude .
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A deluge of images, Esme. I envision the mirrors of the disco ball capturing your enthralling beings, illumined brightly but fleetingly. Here is when my mind’s eye caught them. It was when the window panes smashed :
Window panes smash in the foyer
Just before our searchlights hit bingo —
Two relieved glances exchanged
Like furloughed flares
Never let them go.
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I won’t. I can promise you that. Thank you for the favourite snippet as well Bill, I like seeing the parts that grab (so to speak)!
-Esme wearing flares with Bill upon the Cloud
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Nice blog
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Thank you very much Saania Sparkle – smiles broadly
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