jueves, 8 de marzo de 2012

The Key

Dark iron
smelted in a bloomery
pounded on the beak horn
and browned by the keeper at the forge,
the keys, are now encased in glass.
Each offering, its own collection.

The biggest
- you can get four fingers
through its bow -
was for a warded lock
on a burled door
of the Cathar fortress
at Peyrepertuse.
A door, opened only
by a team of horses,
or a man of the cloth.

After the fall
at Montsegur,
The key passed briefly
to the Counts of Barcelona
before being pillaged
by the bastard Henry of Trastámara
and his band of mercenaries.
It was later lost
in a tense game of Alouette
during the 100 years war.

The castle is now ruined,
a small wooden booth
selling tickets and postcards
lies just to the right
of the vine-streaked arch
where the door once stood.

Yet, here, the key remains.
Picked up for two pesetas in 1981
from a charnego's blanket
at Les Encants fleamarket.
Dark iron, smelted in a bloomery
pounded on the beak horn
browned by the keeper at the forge
encased in glass
and framed,
like an old master.

miércoles, 6 de abril de 2011

Ben Vin Guts

Ben Vin Guts

That’s /b/ n /b/
Does not mean,
(though it might)
Good wine stomach
Drink all night
Nor Come brave red
Nor Ben’s been good

It’s not German
Rhyming slang
Shouted out
From converted van
zat black sausage
makez you fat”

It is, in fact,

For welcome.

miércoles, 30 de marzo de 2011

Some poems...

The truth is – I carried, he built.
When you came in, prickling with anger
eyes reddened with irritation
(or was it the drink ?)
you were already shouting,
though your mouth was closed.
The sun did not shine, too wet to play
so we had built a den
in the garage,
my brother and I.
Well, the truth is – I carried, he built.
And from the bric-a-brac
of your boxed-up bones
we built our skeleton
draped in second-hand clothes.
Well, the truth is – I carried, he built.

But it was all good
just that being there with him.
Doing stuff. Making things.
When suddenly, he snapped.
And I snapped back.
Was it the blanket falling from the wire?
I can't remember now, the cause,
as if only one were needed
for children's wars.
But the truth is – I carried, he built.

Then we were at it tooth and claw
rolling around on the floor:
That's the part where you came in
already shouting,
though your mouth was closed.
But the truth is – I carried, he built.

jueves, 16 de diciembre de 2010

The Rambla RIP

The Rambla ( R.I.P.)

Was it here at the Pitta Inn
Those fascist bastards did ‘em in?
Firing squad sorts
Tanks full of gin,
Did they park up at Hogan’s
And watch Kentucky FC
Loading their guns
For their Bugger King
Before going on
To spill some guts
For patria
And a handful
Of ill-starred bucks?
No. It was at the UGT
Further down

A las cinco de la tarde

They gunned ‘em down
Franco’s blues
Had come to town:
Calling time
At the union bar.
And now, Che Guevara
Is a human statue
On Miro’s star
Wowing the crowds
With his joke cigar.
Jaume, Manuel,
Amadeo and Alba,
Cheers to you.
Wherever you are.

miércoles, 18 de agosto de 2010

Día de la Hispanidad

Día de la Hispanidad (October 12, Barcelona)

Storm clouds and Skins gather to reminisce nastiness on Jews’ Hill
As the unhappy tourist, diverted due to demo

Brollies up and escalates down to the Gran Palau Nacional:
Cumulus castellanus and gleaming glass picture frame

Normally open for public contemplation of Christ’s romantic
Neo-gothic flagellation and gilded crucifix 

But now besieged by black flag boys looking for bald heads to bash in
As beneath backshear anvil they burn placards of the king

Expecting drama, flooding, manhole covers tossed like tiddlywinks
on violent geyzers, fountains of emotional seething

Tourist is disappointed. Gets only spitting, viscid droplets
Falling on smouldering bin full of failed firelighters

A fistful of sighs scattered in the wet and trodden underfoot
Nowt to write home about. Not even worth a postcard.

Note: Dia de la hispanidad is a day when the local nazis get together to commemorate Franco, they do this near the mentioned National Art Gallery and are inevitably met with some form of resistance.

miércoles, 13 de mayo de 2009

Iraq/Sant Jordi

Saint George On the Road.

Sailing East from Lydda
zip code DC 20500
our errant knight travels [Nimitz class]
on the breeze of the sea
under crescent moon, late April.
Bagful of Tomahawks
block IV, DSMAC.
One last push George.

Texas rose on his shield
warm breath against the visor
- three snap flip, photochromic coating -
he rides into the floating dark
on a tide of flotsam
and propeller-chewed plastic
spewed from the charred black
mouth of the Tigris.

Searching for a sign
among the shoals of stars,
searching for just one
miserable god-damn gleaming scale
of the Mother of all Camels
- also known as Draco the Dragon -
he is fatefully [and unfortunately
for the crusaders of the cross]

distracted by his own reflection: 
the possibility of his own sticker
in the latest Pannini Heroes collection,
sought and swapped by millions
and lovingly stuck somewhere 
between Perseus and Terminator
né Schwarzenegger
proves too much to resist

and he does not hear the approach,
the sudden flap of wings
like a main sail caught in a gust.
And in a snap, his legend is lost -
yellow petals falling softly
against his bullet-proof vest
as Miles Davies' Autumn Leaves
plays out from 32.5 on the dial.