GARRY CORBETT
Vampyre Tale (inspired by Tom of the Night Shift)
The carpet showed signs of old stains & dirt
The curtains hung open & let in the light,
The Vampyre was wearing his best satin shirt
The dribble of blood to stimulate fright.
Opening the curtains he flung back his head
Opening his mouth he gave forth a moan,
Opening his handbag he lay back on his bed
Opening his red-eyes realised he was stoned.
He dreamed of a better day long long ago
He dreamed of a time of rhythm & rhyme,
He dreamed of young virgins with pulsating throats
He passed out in the sunlight for the very last time!
WEST BROMWICH BLUES (1969).
Late night.
On the yellow light-streaked streets
I hear the thumping
Bass & wailing harp muffled
From the basement of the
Cassa Bamboo.
The Cassa Bamboo,
By day the haunt of
Frothy coffee drinking
Philosophers, down at
Heel philanderers & permed
Escapees from Cammies & Cadmans.
Now closed like a mouth, in
Near darkness, it throbs
Like a great heart.
Giving out its rhythm to
The empty street
To the wet pavement.
Across the street
Shoulders hunched, moving
Between pools of sodium light
A beautiful (to my eyes) exotic
Asian girl, walking
In time to the music.
Not for her the neat arrangements,
Or customary future.
Tight jeans, afghan coat, streaming
Jet-black hair, swept back by
Ringed fingers. This is ’69.
Her spirit is finding its wings.
There’s a brief eye contact.
A shy smile, Blues fades,
Drizzle remains.
I never did get to learn
The name of that blues
(or see her again).
Meditation on Epstein’s Head of Rabindranath Tagore
A curator’s creaking shoe
damages the reverential silence,
the well modulated tone of tour guide’s
voice echoes in the space.
Beneath the opaque glass dome
with its shifting play of light
thrusting bronze made flesh,
firm, flowing beard touched
by a thousand curious fingertips,
gazed upon with mild passing
interest, ignored by some, hollow
eyed coldness radiates something
of wisdom, something of death.
Its inner life ticking like a
God-given mechanism,
It says, look at me, I’m creator,
created, manipulated, patinated.
I know your secret.
%
with your nose to the grindstone
your shoulder to the wheel
back against the wall
well you know how it feels
to be out on your uppers
and down at heel
when 90% of nothing means something
90% of nothing means something
you said as you finished your whisky
and staggered to bed
that cryptic message rattled
around in my head
like crumbs inside of a biscuit tin
well I pondered your words and
what they might mean
what repercussions for my hopes
fears and schemes they
fed my demands and seeped
into my dreams
that 90% of nothing means something
I went to my bed where I tossed
and I turned, didn’t sleep much
my spirit it burned
mind wracked with tensions all
other thoughts spurned
but 90% of nothing means something
I woke early next morning
fogged head in a bind
determined to establish what
meaning defined by the
parting words of last night in my mind
"90% of nothing means something"
"90% of nothing means something?"
I said over breakfast of
Muesli , Bran and French bread
"Fool" you replied "that’s not what I said
I said 90% of SOMETHING MEANS NOTHING!"