Richard IV
Wednesday is about books. And/or writing. Today, it’s both — a final (for now) drop of fresh “Richard Poems” and a wee announcement of sorts at the end…
Yes, yes, back with a fourth dumping of The Richard Poems. So soon? These things continue to pour…and I wasn’t going to share another batch, but hey, blame John Carpenter.
I often think, What would John Carpenter do? And he’s about to release his fourth volume of Lost Themes (called Lost Themes IV). And though I’m not John Carpenter, I like the cut of his vibe. So I’m feeling good about sharing a fourth newsletter filled with Richard Poems (called Richard IV). Let’s say, at least, I’m feeling better about sharing it than I am this awkward confluence…but it at least gives me a chance to share this cool new Carpenter track above.
Anyway, I’ve written most of The Richard Poems in a blaze and a burst this year. Some were written a few years back, before I knew that Richard Poems were a thing. Back when there was only one or two of them. But then, over summer, something bubbled up from under and now there’s more than a book worth of Richard Poems. These ones below are a small selection of the ones I’ve written in the last couple of weeks…
Stay tuned for more talk at the end. Meanwhile, here’s what Richard has been up to lately…
I Was (Friends With) A Teenage Psychopath
We watched a lot of horror films, mostly
silly ones — for fun. In French class, the
Teach asked us to draw pictures of our
family members — we’d add the names
and relationships (en Francais) after.
Richard asked if could draw Freddy,
teacher asked if that was an uncle. “Oh,
he’s more than an uncle to me”, he replied
cryptically. Then drew four pages
of Freddy Krueger mutilating babies…
Handed it in with a grin, waved to
the class as he went to say whatever
to the principal. This, the dead birds,
spitting in his brother’s food, the way
he talked about sex — earlier than
any of us. It all started to add up.
My bike tire slashed one day, but he
offered to help me look for the cunt
that did it. I think I knew that cunt
was far closer than I would have liked…
Hospitality
Images arrive now. Him standing
on the front lawn in Y-front undies,
Hawaiian shirt undone, a cowboy
hat, some $2 Shop sunnies…and
an electric frying pan on a lon
lead — “the BBQ” — a Pak’nSave
chop nearly sizzling…and a slurred
rendition of Whitney Houston’s
‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’
on the opshop tape deck.
This was him thinking he was
Tony Montana…or Tony Soprano…
Drinking vodka and orange from
a plastic cup at 10.30 in the morning;
saying, “It’s my day off!” very loudly
to dog walkers, the Postie, and
anyone else that happened by.
When The Music’s Over
He gave up on music really, and that
should have been the clue — I shouldn’t
have excused many of his other behaviours
and I’m not sure that I did. But the way
he just gave up on music, didn’t care
what was playing, stopped trying to play,
that was enough of a sign; our true common
interest over, gone. Tossed behind him
like the previous night’s bad memories, two
dozen empties and the crumpled foil.
We no longer had anything to talk about.
Sheep In Wolves Clothing
Who actually wins in the fight?
I’ve never really been in one. I’m
not the fighting kind. But what I
Remember is when my ex best
friend punched me hard in the
face — it hurt. But he was
the one running, crying, out the
door and off into the street. His
werewolf rising. My silver bullet
too much for him — and just
enough for me. I don’t make
the rules but I reckon I won that
one. I took that punch with all
his might. He gave me back
the power. Right then and there
and now…forever.
His Only Proof
Richard one told me
he thought that he
could probably choke
a person right out.
He reckoned the proof
he was a good person
was that he didn’t
ever do it.
Not A Lot Like You
We both loved Neil Young because, I think,
on some level, everyone should love Neil
Young. But you were always a lot less
committal — and I know I’m far too intense
with this shit, but still. Now, under
this form of self-scrutiny, I tell myself I’m
uncovering clues that were there all along:
Me buying and relentlessly listening to Neil
Young, say. You no longer nodding along to
every song, and instead, drinking, drugging
thug-ing; finding your superiority by losing
your mind. Long ago ditching anything kind.
No Heart of Gold for you. Barely any
heart at all. Though it beats inside you
still, I presume? And we’re getting old.
A Western Song from The Tibetan Singing Bowls
When you’re young it’s easier to make
friends that’s break up with friends.
Older, it’s far easier to drift apart or call
it quits, to decide the alignment no longer
fits. To make the call. I’d never let another
Richard in right now and wouldn’t — and
haven’t — for ages. That’s not because
of any scars. But then again, of course it is.
In Another Life
In another life, you stayed put, you
Didn’t leave — there was no drift.
In another life, you never lost the
plot, you kept on reading — never
needing to borrow books from my
shelves to impress the girls from
the pub. In another life, you didn’t
rat me out to the cops to save your
own arse; your goose was never
cooked because the straight line
was the only one you walked. We
still talked a bout music and movies,
played the odd round of golf —
laughed a lot at all the things
that cracked us up for all those
times. And we would still
be friends.
In another life.
Gizzy
Good times in Gisborne, when I
Was young. We’d get the bus up
and back — listening to tapes
all the way. We’d watch movies,
play pool, swim, even golf a little.
It all meant a lot. Those good times
in Gisborne, when I was young.
But nothing lasts forever, especially
good times. That feeling of nothing
actually mattering, of everything
being brilliant. Everything has its
season. And I’m not saying this
is the reason, but I’ve never been
back. I left Gisborne where it is —
wouldn’t recognise it now at all.
But I remember the sunshine, the
beach, and the good times. It did
seem they might last forever…
Immolations
There were several fires, really.
There were car crashes too. He
fled the scene of at least one
major crash that was entirely
his fault; the takeaway being
he was a marvel
of modern science
for making it out alive, not
a scoundrel, or villain, or
nuisance — for creating
public damages, endangering lives,
ruining things. But he was always
ruining things. There were several
fires. Maybe one is burning still.
Maybe something is stirring deep
inside of him. Some fires you can’t
put out. Several rebirths arriving
after several deaths suggests some
ultimate, hideous form of luck.
Numbers
It wasn’t just me that copped it from
Richard, and I wasn’t — really — a victim.
I mean, sure, I was arrested, I watched
him punch the editor of a magazine I was
trying to write for; I was almost sadder to
see him no longer interested in things
we used to fight for…
Other people had huge bills to deal with
from damage he did, and the emotional
Scars he left. I made it out and up and
away — I am okay. But now I wonder
about the others…
& not just where they are — and how
they are, but who they are…
So. There you go. Another few from the file. I’ll probably leave it there for now - no Richard V or VI for now, but maybe the poems will continue to tumble. Anyway, it’s been a time. A real thing. Most of these poems written on my phone, while walking around town. Dog walks at night or weekends, or early morning…
But the news I have today is to say, just quietly, that they are going to be a book. The best of them will be gathered — including many you won’t have read here and in the other offerings via this newsletter (which I’ll share about below if you want to re-read or catch up….) and they will be published in book-form before the end of this year.
I had a meeting with a publisher yesterday. And it’s looking good for these (and other) Richard Poems. Yay!
Anyway, still workshopping them, still shaping them, so any/all feedback welcome…
