Charming Snakes

What would you like from the menu?
I asked of three charming snakes.

A Swiss bun, please, said an adder.

A Cumberland Ring, please hissed a python.

The oldest man in the room,
demanded the boa constrictor.

But I couldn’t hear him for he was out
And I was in.

Waiting inside a serpent.

He didn’t leave a tip.
Dan Belton – December 2018
Advertisements

Untitled

In the early morning

In the sheer dark

Not a thing could I see,

eyes dead with night.

And then slowly, slowly, as my eyes started to fathom

The shapes in the room,

The outlines,

The familiarities, it still seemed 

there is no light in this room.

Even the little I can see

In this dark room,

The faded patch by a blacker shadow,

A crack near the door, a sock

Even the very little I can see in this room with each passing minute,

I can see,

I can see because of the sun.

can see because of the sun.

Even the very little I can see

I can see because of the light.

I can see because of the light that is always there somewhere.

I can see because of a light that always comes back.

Dan Belton – November 2018

So it goes ’77

Seeing the Pistols for the first time
A ‘77 re-capper on So it Goes.
A rotten fixed sclerotic eye
Pierces the bulged glass glaze
Of the telly.
A smear of glass as if an internal chamois
Has tried to wipe the phlegm off.

Furiously alive yet pinned to
The curtain of performance.
The world curls its lip.
“I hope you aren’t going to grow up like that!”
My mum says as she lays down the cruet set.
“Oh no! Mum…I think they look awful people”

Somewhere in ‘85.
My hair is down to my nipples.
My leather and cut-off weigh more than me.
My best black jeans are torn apart and stitched back
With blood thread.
My Pistols t-shirt is crisp, inside out, ironed and
Hidden at the bottom of the clothes basket –
a year old but so clean it glows fluorescently, piss yellow.
I’m the cleanest ‘punk’ in town.
Mum can be horrified by the Bollocks
But can never not do the laundry
Nor cast a clout.
Anarchy is an un-pressed pair of socks.

So it goes ’77

Seeing the Pistols for the first time
A re-capper on So it Goes.
A rotten fixed sclerotic eye
Pierces the bulged glass glaze
Of the TV screen.
A smear of glass as if an internal chamois
Has tried to wipe the phlegm off.

Furiously alive yet pinned to
The curtain of performance.
The world curls its lip.
I hope you aren’t going to grow up like that!
My mum says as she lays down the cruet set.
Oh no! Mum…I think they look awful people.

Somewhen in ’85
My hair is down to my nipples.
My leather and cut-off weigh more than me.
My best black jeans are torn apart and stitched back
With blood thread.
My Pistols t-shirt is crisp, inside out, ironed and
Hidden at the bottom of the clothes basket –
a year old but so clean it glows fluorescently, piss yellow.
I’m the cleanest ‘punk’ in town.
Mum can be horrified by the Bollocks
But can never not do the laundry
Nor cast a clout.
Anarchy is an un-pressed pair of socks.

An Elegy of all Parts.

I was asked to repost this, an elegy done for my Mum’s ashes ceremony.

The Elegy of all Parts

 

I become the water,
I become the tree,
I become the clouds louring over thee.
I become the land,
I become the place,
I become the four winds
playing upon your face.

I become the setting sun
And I become the dawn,
I become the dying
and I become the born.

Mine is the voice you hear
And my tales that you may talk.
I become the paths you take
In the footsteps that you walk.

Think of what I have become
when you think of me,
I turn and change and change not at all
I become all memory.

I am blood and earth,
I am heart and bone,
I am the elegy of all parts
And you are not alone.

D.Belton July 2016 in Memoriam of Mrs S Gates r.i.p 29/7/2015

Good for What Ails You – Exquisite Corpse

The possibly last readings from the Pulpit of the Bee’s Mouth (Hove) from the ‘legendary’ (cough) “Good for What Ails You” events of poetry, song, comedy, and the occasional essay on fan-fiction pornography, yielded up a few examples of exquisite corpse poetry. Lines scribbled down, concealed and passed around an increasingly jovial room yielded results that seem to gel coincidentally in the mind’s eye of Ben Graham’s talk about the Austin, TX psyche scene and the tales of the 13th Floor Elevators. Read aloud by audience and performers alike, the best handful are presented for your bemusement, below – reader, I harried them.

No. 1

I am not picking up any hitch hikers because

It is the rainiest day in history –

At my age I find mylself looking back over my life

is like a bag of walnuts: it’s hard to crack !

The safe burst open, twenty pound notes in great wads piled high…

Shakespeare himself was often pissed, Darkly,

his pet ferret scrabbled to escape from

here to there

in between our dreams.

 

No.2

And today’s sky, blue high

as an elated kite on acid –

I love the way music transports me

and my shadow of jelly go dancing,

come dancing

with me said the beautiful ape…

Dope and no amoiunt of sense, sensible, nonsensical nonsense,

nonsense. Lousy dog!

With one leg you are valiant..the sun

transforms the grey horizon.

 

No. 3 

 

I am not the Walrus

moustache.

Groucho’s grin got way crazy

after all these years

alone

is a thing with weight; it exists in the clouds and interent

cafes. The coffee here was shit at best.

Contest winner was actually the biggest loser.

The fried egg with the universal template in the nuclear

mausoleum filled with dead souls who turned to

stone.

 

No.4 

 

I have never been a fan of the the band, Queen whereas other bands have grown on

Me and you can stay for tea;

tangy, golden, peaceful moments of crashing excruciating anxiety –

take your time , don’t be afraid.

Breathe the exhilarating screams of Brighton

burning in the fireplace of living rooms,

shivering warm and fuzzy/mindfucked/but

drunk, bored and stoned.

 

 

This is enough. No one has knowingly given up their day jobs.

St Agata to Sorrento

Real Lemons are not yellow

they are green ochre

and fall from the trees, not netted for

olives, like children’s teeth from the gum,

and spiral into your hand as

if the trot from St Agata is a game of

Bagatelle:

Your tempo increases, your achilles’ tendons

extend, you are outnumbered by flora.

Lizards and flora.

St Agata to Sorrento marker

St Agata to Sorrento marker

He ordered a sirloin – piccola

in the port side restaurant

and it came from the kitchen

shaped like a lyre,

as toothsome as life,

with a bone like an arm,

and he did not think of her at all.

Finishing his wine,

he waved his steak knife which resembled his

teeth – full of joy

and visited the bathroom

and being on holiday,

for you are supposed to, on holiday,

full of joy, stole a towel.

Being him, being English,

he stole but a small one,

a face flannel really, for pocket or head,

but embroidered, oh yes,

with a coat of arms, embroidered,

and he tipped 5 Euro,

And though he called it sauntering,

fled.

DB 14/11/15