Richard III
Wednesday is about books, or writing. Today, a third installment of the "Richard poems".
I recognise I’m hitting you hard with these. Why it was only a couple of weeks ago that I laid out the second-drop:
Richard II
And just a month ago, or so, it was the first batch of “Richard” poems:
Richard
They are arriving quickly — because I’ve lived with them for 25-30 years, or so. And a funny thing happens when you start to focus in on a single theme, memories start to unlock. So I’m going to hit you with a third-drop; “Richard III”. Again, let me know what you think. Some of these — and some from the earlier drops — were part of my 7-poem reading last weekend (Slam Or Be Slammed).
Poetry Reading: Slam or Be Slammed
The event itself was BRILLIANT. I somewhat rushed my reading, on account of the fact that I was MC for the afternoon also, and I didn’t want to look like I was taking up all of the time, or hogging the stage. It was to the detriment of my new poems. But, my first time reading in public in two years was, I think, okay. And the whole event was utterly sublime. I also felt a bit worried that my Richard Poems might be a bit of a bummer as a start to the event, but I’d made the call I was going to read them — and I’m glad I debuted some of them in that setting.
Anyway, here we go, Richard III:
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.Finally Stop
You blew through town each summer
for a while, leaving a town that knew
who had hit it, but never knew why.
When you moved here for good, it was
because you were running away. But
did it ever stop? Did you ever stop?
You are probably still running away. Still
hitting towns. Leave them in some state
of shock. Laughing at some of the bullshit
you said, and how far it got you. But
you couldn’t be further from the truth —
even if, one day, you finally stop.
More Sad
You had that story about the flatmate
who had a pet lamb. You reckonde you
killed it, dried it in the shed and skinned
it; cooked and served it — and told her
you were sad for her about the missing
lamb. Then told her she’d just eaten it.
That’s a disturbing story.
But it’s also bullshit.
Which only makes it more disturbing.
But you were always doing that — making
such stories. I almost thought it was
creative — but that’s the benefit of the
doubt that arrives on the back of a long
friendship. And you can’t get people
arrested for their phoney stories.
I no more served you with a restraining order,
than you served that fucking sheep.
Not sure what makes me more sad.
Set For Life
Richard’s mum booked him in
for 13 haircuts — all at once, which
is to say she made the bookings
at the start of the year.
”It’s brilliant”, he said, with a laugh.
”Everything clean and tidy and sorted”.
His mum beaming in the background,
she was never more proud, could not
handle any scruff. A haircut every
four weeks would keep everything
clean and all would be in order.
Yes, you see, he’d be set for life.
Rumination
We were all pretty horrible back then, varrying degrees of course.
We had a new flatmate, and joked about what we might do
to her room; a joke by the way. Just a joke. But some of the jokes
were getting pretty rough, and, also, not many of them were
very funny. Something about hiding a dog shit in the bedroom
turned rather nastily to the idea of a human shit…
Then Richard told us all off. Said that was horrible. It was surprising.
He’d been quiet all this time.
Then he took the floor. “You can’t do that. That’s not nice. And
also far too easy. Look”, he said, blank expression as ever, just telling
us the facts as he saw it: “What you do is you take the shit. Then
freeze it. You then grind it down into a fine powder. Smear it on the
backs of the posters in her room. Give it time. It will start to seep out,
the smell…let it ruminate…give it a few months. Trust me. This is better”.
Customs
The stories outlasted the friendship
which is something — I guess. But
it’s much better when it’s the other
way around; I have friends from school
and we are still on the same page —
and not because we’re being forced
to read.
If I saw Richard again, we might laugh
a something stupid that only meant
anything to us — but he would follow
it up with a bunch of beers. And there
would be no progression. My other
friends from that time can sit in silence,
will be here to outlast all stories.
And what good are stories when they
have their own suitcases, so carefully
packed that to open them in public is
to undergo scrutiny, is to have all
excuses ready — the declaration card
signed, everything ordered, just
to gain some stamp of approval?
Listless
We spent hours writing lists when we were kids,
Top 5 Bass Players — Top 5 Guitarists,
Drummers, Singers…even Top 5 Keyboardists?!
We spent hours writing lists, making mystery bands —
Keith Richards on rhythm guitar, Ginger Baker on drums,
Paul McCartney on bass, Jeff Beck on lead guitar.
We’d write these lists, while waiting for games to
load to the old computer, the disc wirring away in the
background, and maybe The Animals or the Yardbirds
singing about how they had to get out of some place,
or what they would do for someone’s love. And we were just
locked right in, passing notes after scribbling in silence.
We weren’t quite Lennon and McCartney. (Not even
close). And we weren’t Mick and Keef. But we were
Richard and Simon. And this was when that meant
something. And now he wouldn’t even make
The Bottom Five. There’s a place reserved somewhere
lower than that, somewhere deep down below.
Truant
I used to wonder where you went —
your eyes rolled back in your skull,
pint in hand, glazed look caked hard.
I also wondered why you were disappearing.
What had happened that had hit so
hard, was there a single reason?
You would pull back on a cig or
a joint like it owed you a pathway.
But no one could ever crack through
that smirk, or see behind those eyes.
You were never going to let anyone in.
Did you ever let anyone in?
Immarcesible
It was the way he could worm
his way into a group, find the one
that needed to feel special, take
the trust of those so willing
to give it; make a move based
entirely on his own — striking deep
and quickly controlling the situation.
In the corporate world this might
be a citation.
Bad Sport
When Richard was drunk it was lookout.
It was everything from life of the (always/impromptu)
party – to home demolition. No one could know
when to blow a whistle to signal the changing of sides.
And what good was being a referee? But I found
myself vice-captain of his team, captain of the opposition,
a coach for one team or the other – and even an umpire too.
That’s possibly why I found it so exhausting.
That’s possibly why he liked to call everything a game;
he loved seeing people running around.
He loved to win trophies and
burn the stadium to the ground.
That’s The Ticket
there was that time
my flatmate asked Richard
what he was up to. And he
was all, “Just gonna float around here
over summer until I get my diving ticket —
then head up to Micronesia”.
Immediately after, he turned to me and
said, “I think he was really interested
in that”. And I was all, “Yeah, but it’s not
even real — why did you say it?” And he
goes, “Why not?” And skulled
the other half of his quart.
Re: Hosting
There’s never just one thing — it’s a lot.
But when it’s been a lot for a long time
then one thing can be the final catalyst.
You weren’t ever accountable,
nor interested in being morally culpable —
so of course you never saw it coming.
Your thing was that your superficial charm
would fix every scenario — and if it couldn’t,
there could be physical threats as well.
But I was losing my own battle against
myself, which made it all the more cruel and
nasty that you would call back to us
being friends, but you hadn’t been one
for most of the time I knew you. I still feel
the shifting and lifting of that weight.
Not A Perfect Day
This might seem silly, but, I remember playing
Lou Reed’s Transformer and Richard shook his head
at that line about being hit with the flower; he said
that was fucking stupid. And I said, ‘but it’s a quote
from Andy Warhol, in fact it was a challenge. He dared
Lou to write a song with that line, and I think Lou Reed
nailed the assignment’.
Richard said he hated the way I loved all “that faggot shit”.
And I remember telling him that it didn’t matter at all, and
why would you say that, and he reckoned that anyone
that liked Transformer was obviously a fag. And I said
that I wasn’t, but so what if I was. And he said, “You better
not be, because if you are I would fucking destroy you mate.
So you better fucking not be”. Made me like the album more.
And him a whole lot less.
How It Ended?
When we were 12 he was my best friend,
at 22 he played the hand that had me arrested,
it’s fair to say it was a decade of ups and
downs, we both were clowns, together and
alone. Tethered at one point forever to the ideal
of meeting when we were young. When fun
was always just around the bend. Then shit
got real, and we got bent instead. It all went
the shape of a rotten pear. Were we just a
rotten pair? Perhaps — in the end.
Is this the end?
No Answers
I can’t remember her name but at a guess
it’s Jen. I see her around the streets now
and then, some 25 years on from when,
briefly, we knew each other because she
was Richard’s Girlfriend – and I
was Richard’s Friend. Both roles we stepped
away from so long ago. But now we are
doomed to look at one another, avoid eye
contact and small talk, and each silently judge
the other other for ever being in his orbit. I want
to ask her if she’s okay. The life on her face
tells me it is all best forgotten. She might
want YOU to ask me the same thing
I could also ask her: What did you ever see in him?
I guess this is why we are best not speaking,
not even the little Fight Club nod.
Panegyric
She said “Richard is real?”
And I said “Yeah”
She said “I thought he was your brother?”
And I said “Nah”
She said, “My Richard was called Claire”
And I said “Well, we all have them”.
She said “And they have us”.
I’m still thinking about that.
Engaged
we talked on the phone a lot —
which now seems super weird since
almost no one does that; since I don’t
have his number and wouldn’t want him
to have mine. A proof that this is all in the
past — yet I’m still hung up on it. Somewhere
and in some way — he’s still on the line.
New Year’s Eve, Matamata, 1991.
Three of us. We only have a few beers – but we can get
into the booze-cabinet if we want to. First, we’ll run
down the road and lift a small car up on someone’s front lawn.
We sprint, hard, as if anyone might be watching. There’s a
rush as we hide behind the couches, the music off. Panting.
Secretly hoping there’ll be a knock at the door to ignore or
a siren screaming past. All that happens is we soon start
giggling. Then we have a nip of bourbon. And another.
Raid the record collection and play Neil Young’s Harvest
and then The War of the Worlds. We turn the lights off and
let Richard Burton do his wonderful monologue.
“No one would have believed…”
No one was scrutinising us. Our friend’s parents were
out at a party and we were trying our best to find and create
mischief. And kinda struggling. We were really kinda struggling.
It’s funny how those were our wonder years. Our young years.
We were tight. Best friends. Thinking it could never end.
The three of us haven’t spoken in 25 years or so.
And the best of the stories
are nowhere near as good
as we’ve remembered
“A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!”