Nothing But a Star

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Nothing But a Star Page 7

by Jeremy Reed


  Johnny Spitfire

  Obsessed, I even save his texts,

  Dr Johnny

  like Burroughs’ Dr Benway,

  issuing taxonomic, chemical

  and pharmacological tips

  from the French House, or a submerged Gerry’s,

  wearing a blueblack jumper full of holes

  like black ones in the universe,

  deep space another sort of chemistry.

  I’d buy him 20 red roses,

  a berry cake, and exchange tongues

  if I could find him on this rainy night

  in which I sit imagining

  the dystopian survivors of catastrophe

  led out into the cloudy Sahara

  by the Zen-Buddhist septuagenarian

  Leonard Cohen

  dressed in an orange suit and black slouch cap,

  a gigolo diplomat on the move,

  the great inveterate idealist

  armed only with a voice and a guitar

  leading the tribe towards a point

  that vanishes into nowhere.

  Johnny’s my weird association here

  to panicked vision, as I wait

  to hear his rapid-fire, stripped dealer’s voice,

  the rain outside falling so fast it sounds

  a shattered staccato

  like thousands of clicky Japanese heels

  racing for trains in rush-hour Tokyo.

  Marta

  I’ll never know her more than casually,

  the cornflower blue eyes like a manga doll’s,

  a futures blue like summer holidays

  in places I can’t remember.

  She’s Polish: black curls scrolling down her cheeks

  like springy pasta twirls,

  glitz diamante bracelet and earrings

  that sparkle like her personality.

  She tells me focused fragments of her past,

  little bits of excerpted biography—

  her mother’s eyes are bluer (think sapphires),

  they live beside a lake (think dark cobalt).

  She has an arts degree (think colour codes),

  her sister Monique’s with her at Gaby’s,

  fringed black bob black as a blackout,

  green eyes (the colour of a smoky jade).

  Marta’s fine-tuned, her sensibility

  like rice paper, her skin a transparent mapping

  of sensitivity. We touch like that,

  our thoughts meeting like clouds, intuitive

  in pink and blue, a few minutes each day,

  tentative, reassuringly,

  the understanding perfect, despite word tumbles

  and misunderstandings that correct themselves:

  we wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Voodoo

  It’s age works as the hex I can’t repair,

  my genome hacked by error—I’m half done

  like someone returned from the rocky Moon

  with an Apollo camera.

  I go to Camden, buy two voodoo dolls.

  mini-hoodoo, vampish things

  like black mice with Keith Richards’ leathered face,

  junkies habituated to pins

  impassive to the needled pain. I want

  (won’t get)—time to magic words all day,

  a slave to tease my fetishes

  in every way, abundant red roses

  bleeding into my view, I need (won’t find)

  brain essentials like DHA

  in the marine food web. It’s slow poison,

  the debris circulating in my veins

  like accumulative NASA space junk.

  If my lifetime pop icons die, I die

  by association. It’s always late

  because life never seems to properly start

  and lemon drizzle cake won’t compensate

  this lemony dazzled October day

  for seasonal change, and my two voodoo dolls

  become family with their zombie eyes

  and love whatever flavour turns to hate.

  The Velvet Underground Bootleg Series

  The Quine tapes

  remastered from a Sony hand-

  held mike

  catching the band’s disaffected attack,

  the lack

  of audience a perverse incentive

  to liberate tried solidarity.

  Lou chills at Coney Island Franks,

  a hot dog stand: his dodgy squinty eye

  tricky with paranoia

  like a grainy film noir gun chase.

  His head’s still compressed fuzzy with reverb,

  his mustard lashing’s like a sunset smeared

  over the choked-up foggy bay.

  He keeps his quaaludes in a cash wallet

  as favours for the second set.

  He talks guitar to Quine, like engine parts,

  feedback as science, it’s the lexicon

  of reverb obsesses the two,

  an East coast not a West coast thing,

  a drone that goes unmodified

  at Family Dog: the voice so tonal cold

  it’s like refrigerated beer

  left in a month, and then uncapped.

  Cool mastery, my compact cardboard box

  contains four hours of 1969

  live acumen, disinterested audience,

  a VU soup mixed muddily

  into a sonic bonus, like a sun

  winning an orange cone through smoky grey

  low-lying, furry LA fog,

  so it’s the focal point, 38 mins

  of epically re-coloured ‘Sister Ray’.

  China Tea, Roses and Your Sort of Hat

  Chasing the dragon, that’s a smoky leaf,

  twists like an alligator in the pot.

  I’ve got

  a nipple-taupe November rose

  stuck in a Coleman’s Mustard jar,

  a garden snip, some pink satin

  worked in its sleeves, and if you’re hot

  an Okamoto Zero 003

  in a violet foil, and your black sequinned hat,

  part Russian, part beret

  does camp over one eye that’s smudged dull gold,

  vamped with a dusty thunder grey.

  It’s Saturday. The London rain showers in

  like atomising a rainbow,

  a citified bubble doing striptease

  in a diamond tube. Office Space To Let,

  it’s opposite, a vacant second floor

  repurposed, stripped down, unlet for a year

  as obituarised real estate.

  We keep our private space, extend the day

  like stretching time into a mini-death,

  an absence from the world, tea-tourism,

  roses and sex and listening out the rain

  and thinking options between straight and gay.

  Eleonara Come Back

  The acid turned the mountain red.

  4 men carried Eleonara’s bed

  like a black coffin

  over the hills, a Beckstein piano’s weight

  into the valley, and the drug came up

  in psychedelic purples, orange, green,

  his brain hallucinating a waterfall

  as a silver sequinned fist

  studded with prismatic emeralds.

  She told him she’d been sucked into a Poe story

  like a retro-virus in her cells

  copying chaos, she’d been stretched by words

  into a psychotic superstring.

  They placed the bed beside the moody lake,

  he had her in slow motion for so long

  that when he came, the sky had moved

  a tone up on lavender to indigo

  and subatomic particles

  were visible. They stayed there through the night

  absorbed in leaf patterns and stars and sex,

  and when he woke, she’d disappeared,

  he saw her footsteps written on the lake;
<
br />   and took a boat and sat puddled by clouds

  in the dark water, and the drug went flat

  like turning off an orange neon in his brain,

  and she was gone, and Poe was there,

  sat on a log and slugging Jack Daniels,

  his red umbrella raised against the rain.

  Ruth Ellis Blues

  The room I come from’s where she bounced her hair’s

  self-limiting platinum bob

  as girlie redo in the bar,

  a West End frenchified swipe at the look

  without the liposuction jam-donut pout

  as cool-satin petulant tease.

  We soak the idea of her into talk

  like sponging up vermilion paint

  into a sugar cube.

  Mostly the men she met were abstract blocks

  roomy as MI7 offices,

  forensic emotions, full of grey sky

  planes track through to the Gatwick corridor.

  Back home, I feed snake-twisting diagrams

  of water to stripy geraniums,

  as though I’m doing Japanese rope tricks

  on burnt-up flaky soil. A pink, a red,

  respond to being liquid corset-laced

  into compacted shattered pots.

  Their scent’s a thick lemony surge dragged out

  by nose-diving. The night ramps up testosterone

  and blonde Ruth follows me inside

  like worry, a nerve that’s still red alert

  and won’t die down inside my brain-chatter’s

  Chinese whispers: a woman and a handgun,

  six shots fired like she’d thrown a winning dice:

  and back of me a cherry-sized red sun

  drenched in hallucinated chromatics

  backflips off the horizon’s dusty roar.

  Listening to the Television Personalities

  At transitioning 7 p.m. that’s me,

  mint and a pinch of turmeric,

  dusting my purple sprouting broccoli spears

  for brushstroke steaming, just a smear

  for nutty Worcester succulence, the mauve

  a sort of crimson-indigo

  like rain stepped in over NW3,

  the hour with the first bottle almost dead,

  a Fitou, Merlot, or murky Chateau

  du Paradis, a zesty red

  that knocks me into dissociation

  to hear the boyz come up abrasively

  with 3-chord licks, underground as the Fleet’s

  black rolling corridor, the Effra’s trawl

  like a trapped nerve under the capital,

  Dan Treacy’s weird street grab on poetry

  and pills brawling inside my flat

  with such melodic hooks I feel

  an orange light bulb moment in each cell

  switching my neurons on like helium,

  ‘All the Young Children on Crack’

  taking me into the flat’s north corner,

  the painted black boards, splintered, knotty, nailed

  like the TVs, and they’re obdurately real,

  thirty years going under, righting it,

  and always by presumption coming back.

  Collecting Asa (Benveniste)

  I get the booklets like space junk

  re-entries to the atmosphere, the stuff

  that floats like weak gravity, list mania,

  obsessive fixations that, fixed,

  leave edgy need like withdrawal.

  Breakfast’s their show-time (spinach heaped on toast

  for folic acid and vit A

  and a dragon-finned China White Point tea);

  Asa drank black Turkish coffee:

  Time Being, A Part,

  Invisible Ink, Cortege, Count Three,

  Edge, my favourite, from Joe Di Maggio,

  Language: Enemy, Pursuit,

  It’s the Same Old Feeling Again:

  assembled like urban guerrillas

  answering as a cell. And there’s the books –

  the seventies in a bubble

  of black ink, tugging at the poem’s tail

  like a Chinese emperor’s sleeves,

  his language like black gold, Saudi oil

  converted into currency.

  I keep my stack, they’re my only reading

  in my speeded-up, disconnected time.

  Bordeaux red cyclamen in flower outside,

  my tea still steaming, as I tell myself

  every line that I write commits a crime.

  Selling Truman Capote

  It’s like speeding up a garage track

  to 2-step, dubstep, gangsta

  stuff, what’s in a book, what’s out.

  I mean the words compacted into bytes,

  you get the thing as physical

  before the read, the boards, the glue, the edge,

  slight undulation to reverse dj,

  some chafish edge-wear, small bobble to cloth,

  the book’s statistics—34-24-34

  if it’s approximating fine,

  and what’s exchanged, the A-side, B-side talk’s

  a camp thing, like a pink cup cake

  corset-laced with confetti.

  The hard-sell’s rooted in the signature,

  a navy blue Truman Capote

  cute as the logo on a shirt label,

  clean architecture on the grain,

  each letter happening individually

  like a chain of precise blue snails.

  He’s quizzical (the price built into this),

  the snow falling like blue false eyelashes,

  his equivocation a brain process,

  the signals firing pathways through his eye,

  he checks the signature like DNA

  and goes for plastic, while the snow outside

  throws hexagonal eyes, and a Grass Harp

  goes black-carriered into the underground.

  ‘Sorrow’—original and cover

  Whyz it, a blue association clicks

  waiting out on street for a 24?

  the evening a rose, confrontational slab

  graduating to spinach green,

  and it’s a pop hook gets me mean

  you know pulled out of a tune-bank

  ‘Sorrow’ by the Merseys, a blue

  Bowie cover—a hooky pop moment

  reworked inside my brain

  and repurposed for bandit Pete Doherty

  if he’d subvert it with coster

  cockney, a gritty Brick Lane drawled vocal

  like rubies cut with dodgy crack?

  ‘And all

  I ever get from you is sorrow/sorrow’

  and I mean that, irreparably true—

  the blue bullet holes in the heart

  cyan, turquoise, aquamarine,

  pop does that, ‘Sorrow’, no come back

  ‘with your long blonde hair’—please go away,

  please come back, and I’m waiting here,

  don’t ever leave me and don’t ever stay.

  Charles Baudelaire, Voyage to Cythera—(sex tourist remix)

  My heart turned over doing crystal meth

  beat like a seagull smashed on a cruise ship,

  the hull churning under a seamless sky

  the current’s rip destabilising as drink.

  That off-world island, it’s a blackened chip

  called Cythera, only Dylan’s played there

  before gigging at sham Eldorado:

  you’d think he’d accessed it through a time-slip.

  Bob’s on the voyage, a white cowboy hat

  sealing in shade: a sexy pull comes up,

  a floating scent crowding on feel-good chemicals.

  The girls in tangas loll there smoking dope.

  The island’s green with myrtle, heady stuff,

  there’s boys there too waiting to give good head:

  the skyline’s soft as a collapsed red rose;

  it shows up violet, p
ink and lipstick red.

  The place was once a focus like Bangkok

  for selling sex, now seagulls claim it back:

  a generation’s litter’s on the beach,

  beer cans, a raft of condoms, a skewed shack,

  no five stars, nor topless girls in the coves,

  the hippy guru gone into retreat,

  her beads and incense and her mantras blocked,

  she’s turned psychotic staring at her feet…

  But as we came up close, sighted the shore

  for cell-phone snapshots, scaring off the birds,

  we saw above the camp a forked gallows

  a crudely improvised immediacy—

  and crows were slashing at a ripe body,

  spading out sinew, digging out the eyes,

  ferociously churning into the brain,

  stripping a plump oligarch to the bone….

  The eyes were red holes: was it jackal Blair?

  the guts escaped into a tumbling coil

  the birds fought over: they’d hacked off his cock

  and looped his viscera around his feet.

  And there were jackals scaring off the birds.

  Like answers like; they guzzled body parts

  like US soldiers pissing on war dead.

  The leader barked out orders to the pack.

  We heard news they’d strung up war criminals

  around the island, czars who’d ploughed the Gulf

  with depleted uranium: this one

  was bacon-rashered. Bob sang ‘Like a Rolling Stone’

  to put a simmer in our downturned mood.

  Thrown by the carcass—his torched jeep close by—

  I tasted my end like we always do,

  confronted by bloody atrocity:

  the hedge-funder, his dodgy dossier,

  and now the raw invasion, dog eats dog,

  in body-snatching revenge: there were two;

  his wife was jacked up on the other side.

  The sky and sea shimmered in one dissolve,

  but really all I saw was red and black—

  Baudelaire deconstructing Baudelaire

  confronted by mad predatory attack.

  We sailed on, but the man’s face comes at me

  as a reminder self-disgust feeds hate,

  they’d dressed him in his black suit and white tie

  as though he had a Whitehall dinner date.

 

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