Poetry

Eye Can See Clearly Now

by Enormous on May 14, 2008

I awoke with a jolt this morning at 5am in worried-sheep mode, full of anxiety. I feared one of my big, black waves of depression was about to engulf me. I read some John Donne before going to sleep last night (yes, I read metaphysical poetry – try not to faint) to prevent just this kind of thing from happening.

I lay in bed for a moment, stroking Audrey’s soft head, trying to wake up properly. I put my mood down to the fact that I had been dreaming all night about producing a session for some awful rock band in a recording studio in Mansfield, and tried to wipe it from my memory.

To my further dismay, I realised as I was getting dressed that my right eye was very sore and heavily crusted over. ‘Please, God, not another eye infection,’ I moaned as I stumbled into the bathroom. After performing my watery ablutions however, it became obvious that all was well; my eye was fine, and, as the morning sun rose in the sky over Sutton to the east, I began to feel much better.

Things improved even more when a beautiful Colombian-looking woman – who I imagine is called Angela – smiled at me as we were enjoying our pre-breakfast promenade around the village green. Then, when we got back to the house, there was a big, fat cheque from the PRS waiting for me on the doormat.

Maybe there is a God after all; I used to think that he didn’t exist. I used to think that believing in God was like taking out an insurance policy for the afterlife, but one that the divinity would never have to pay out on. Sorry, God.

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Peoms for Punky Pets ™ No.75

by Enormous on January 17, 2008

If you happened to read Jo Beaufoix’s post that I mentioned yesterday, you would have seen her mention the book that we have written together, Peoms for Punky Pets.

I have already alluded to it before; it is a book of silly, short verse about pets and animals that is aimed at children – but with a very ironic element to it that adults will appreciate.

We are looking for an illustrator at the moment, before we approach any publishers, so if anyone reading this can sketch or draw . . .

As I am very busy in the studio today, I thought I’d post one of my ‘peoms’. This one is a little sad:

Colourful Buffalo
O big, bright beast of happy hues
What have they done to you, those fools?
Where do you hide?
Where did you go?
You wonderful, colourful buffalo.

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Night Rally

by Enormous on March 16, 2007

I am having trouble sleeping at night. It’s the horses, you see. They gather outside my bedroom window in the early hours, around half-past two, three o’clock.

I haven’t managed to do a full head-count yet, but I would say that on average there are always about twenty or thirty that regularly assemble there, waiting.

It is a little creepy, and I have so far felt somewhat apprehensive about leaving the security of my bed and looking out of the window. Generally, I am awakened by their calling to me. ‘Davy, Davy, come out,’ they sing. ‘Join us, Davy. Join us.’

But sometimes I awake prior to their arrival, full of expectation and wonder. I have – so far at least – not answered. I dare not even look at them.

I feel sorry for the disappointment they must feel. I feel sorry for their agony of frustrated anticipation when I don’t reply. But the fact that these docile creatures and I should have this shared nocturnal experience is something of a comfort; and I am often rendered less anxious by this unexpected evolution of our apposite paths.

After they leave, I sleep much more soundly.

‘Davy, come down. Davy -’ Oh what plaintive and reassuring melodies my equine tormentors are able to create in their soft and earnest supplications!

I have no idea what fanciful conceit compels them to do this. Perhaps they honestly believe I would be happier out there roaming the empty streets with them instead of sweating in my bed, alone, insensate and feigning deafness. Perhaps the notion originated out there in the grassy suburbs of the Euro-Chem plant, and, once fully developed, galvanized the herd into action. Or perhaps it was determined long ago that I would eventually join their contented ranks, and that now, ultimately, it is time to begin their passionate entreaty.

‘Come out, Davy. Run with us.’

Tonight, I have resolved to rise from my soft pillows and to finally acknowledge the  presence of my new friends. Tonight, perhaps, I shall answer their calls with: ‘I’m coming.’

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Peoms For Punky Pets, Dog Dept. vol.24, item #46

by Enormous on October 29, 2006

The Dog That Coughed

Climb every mountain, (cough! cough!)
Swim every sea, (cough!)
Chase every rainbow, (cough! cough! cough!)
Until you find you’re (cough! cough!)
Knackered. (cough! cough!) (woof!)

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Fireworks: The Silent Killer

by Enormous on October 27, 2006

It’s not something I’ve eaten; it’s not fumes from a boiler, it isn’t even fear of the bile that rises every time I hear ‘can I have your autograph, please – here, sign here’. It’s not the look of emulsion, it’s not the fact that she toyed with my heart like it was a toy heart (let’s raise a glass of eyewash to her, eh boys, now and again), it isn’t the sadness over my grandfather who had his tongue cut off in the war – he never talked about it. It’s not that boy again, at the door with his funny knock.

All of these things annoy me.

But none more than the noises outside, beyond the swings and slides, beyond the factory gate, behind the sheds and railway sidings, over the wall, on the ‘rec, there on the ‘rec: the flaming bangs and bellows of gunpowder packets, the flash on the field that illuminates fog, constantly toxic and poison and wrong, the fireworks, the fireworks, the violent reminders that frighten my dog.

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A poem

by Enormous on October 15, 2006

La famille Beaufois and their original scribblings forced me into this so it’s not entirely my fault. Nor is it they who have entirely inspired me. Mostly it’s her, queenminx. So I felt I would be letting the side down rather if I didn’t indulge serious-wise, poetry-wise. It’s more of a song really and it doesn’t scan. But life’s like that.

Too Many Late Nights

So it goes…
My dormant brain still hasn’t found
The key for the ignition.
Maybe it will be like a fairytale:
As soon as you arrive
I will be awakened
As if from a legendary slumber.
The engine will start, foot on the accelerator,
Move up through the gears, into 3rd now
And suddenly the car roars like a fucking lion.
Wow, what a feeling!
The whole world speeding by as if it doesn’t exist.
You are so beautiful I can hardly look at you.
But you look at me.
And smile that sweet, toothy way you will
Just as the wind manages to deliver to me its simple message
Loud enough at last
As it crashes past my stupid ears.
We spit
Upon the blurry, shuffling people.
We show them eight, stiff, proud little English fingers
And four paws
As we tear along.
Everything rushing past,
All rushing past.
People so grey, I can hardly see them!
But in front: the horizon.
And on the horizon?
The sun.
The big, fat, sunny, funny old sun I miss so much.
And tied to the back of the car?
A red balloon –
A present from you to me.
And what thankful message have you written on my balloon?
You wrote this:
“David, I went to the cleaners
And I came back with my life.”
And what was the message the wind gave me?
It was this:
“Don’t stop.”
Laughing (and trying not to crash the car)
I realise something wonderful.
And it is so wonderful, I just keep saying it
Over and over again.
This is what I say:
Audrey, I lost the world,
But it didn’t lose me.

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Peoms for Punky Pets – monkey dept.

by Enormous on October 14, 2006

Monkeys Are Not the Only Fruit

Think about oranges
Think about grapes
Think about pears for once
And give me a break.

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