GUEST POEM – DISCO 2000

Disco 2000

written by Pulp ~  

Candida Doyle / Jarvis Branson Cocker / Mark Andrew Webber / Nick Banks / Russell Senior / Stephen Patrick Mackey

Oh, we were born within an hour of each other
Our mothers said we could be sister and brother
Your name is Deborah (Deborah)
It never suited ya
And they said that when we grew up
We’d get married, and never split up
Oh, we never did it, although I often thought of it

Oh, Deborah, do you recall?
Your house was very small
With wood chip on the wall
When I came ’round to call
You didn’t notice me at all

And I said, “Let’s all meet up in the year 2000
Won’t it be strange when we’re all fully grown?
Be there two o’clock by the fountain down the road”
I never knew that you’d get married
I would be living down here on my own
On that damp and lonely Thursday years ago

You were the first girl at school to get breasts
And Martyn said that you were the best
Oh, the boys all loved you, but I was a mess
I had to watch them try and get you undressed
We were friends, that was as far as it went
I used to walk you home sometimes but it meant
Oh, it meant nothing to you
‘Cause you were so popular

Deborah, do you recall?
Your house was very small
With woodchip on the wall
When I came ’round to call
You didn’t notice me at all

And I said, “Let’s all meet up in the year 2000
Won’t it be strange when we’re all fully grown?
Be there two o’clock by the fountain down the road”
I never knew that you’d get married
I would be living down here on my own
On that damp and lonely Thursday years ago

Do it
Oh, yeah
Oh, yeah

Now Deborah, do you recall?
Oh, your house was very small
With wood chip on the wall
And when I came ’round to call
You didn’t notice me at all

And I said, “Let’s all meet up in the year 2000
Won’t it be strange when we’re all fully grown?
Be there two o’clock by the fountain down the road”
I never knew that you’d get married
I would be living down here on my own
On that damp and lonely Thursday years ago

Oh, what are you doing Sunday, baby?
Would you like to come and meet me, maybe?
You can even bring your baby
Ooh ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
What are you doing Sunday, baby?
Would you like to come and meet me, maybe?
You can even bring your baby
Ooh ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh

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CHRiSTMAS 2021

CHRISTMAS 2021

– with extensive Authr’s Notes

.

461

..

Jiffy-black crow get off the road
the meals not worth the life you’re owed
get home to your ma and your family
this mist and this fog its Christmas eve

I jagged myself on a holly bush
my blood the colour of the berries
they were sharp and they were sour
and they so full of poison

a pheasant flew behind me
it was a squawkin’ as they like to do
and thus it did remind me that all we give
and all we get it ain’t worth sweat

I lit a fire, I read my book
I smoked a tasty, black cheroot
I drank from a glass so full of whiskey
I looked up at the night sky

..

                                                               edenbraytoday23.12.2021

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TWO NEW PUBLICATIONS .. .

NEW PUBLICATIONS AVAILABLE POST FREE :

new pamphlets

edenbray is proud to announce two new PUBLICATIONS are available to PURCHASE at a cost of £6.00 each including FREE POST/PACKING

You can email edenbray at :- stepheneede689@btinternet.com to ORDER or FOLLOW the PAYPAL LINK below to make your order :-

https://paypal.me/SeedProducts?locale.x=e

THREE-SCORE YEARS and TEN – is another autobiographical collection of verse produced to celebrate edenbray’s 7oth BIRTHDAY- this year.

MODERN WORKS 2021 – edenbray’s ANNUAL COLLECTION OF VERSE for the past year including all new or unpublished works, many autobiographical + illustrations and extensive Author’s Notes plus a generous forward by BENJAMIN ZEPHANIA.

HEAR edenbray READ HIS LATEST POEM:- PERFORMANCE ART with The Voices In My Head! FOLLOW THIS LINK >>>

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PERFORMANCE ART – With the Voices In My Head .. .

PERFORMANCE ART .. . With the Voices In My Head .. .

with the voices in my head
I lay me down to sleep
with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head

I lay me down
with the voice of drumming
of Babatunde Olatunji – in my head
I hear his drumming in my head

I am not dreaming as
I lay me down upon my bed
with the voices in my head
the strange voices in my head

I lay me down
with the voices in my head
the voice of summer, the voice of death
the voice of children breathing

with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head

the gentle voice of Mahatma
of Barack Obama’s promises
the voice of Tony Blair’s lies
of MLK and JFK, Aneurin Bevan

I lay me down
with the voices of summer starlings
gathered in my head, before my eyes
with the voices in my head

of the dead and dying those rhymes
the war poets strike with death prose
a crocodile strikes with death rolls
the sound of promises and lies

I hear the voice of my mother
with the voices in my head
the voices of all my lovers
with the voices in my head

I earn my own daily bread
dear father of mankind forgive
our foolish ways, reclothe us
in our rightful minds…

with the voices in our heads

with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head

with the voice of Charlie Chaplin
with the voice of Marcel Marceau
Marcel Proust, Greta Garbo, Greta
Thunberg, Emma Goldman, Gertrude Stein

with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head
of Danny Kaye, Martha Stewart
of Jimmy Stewart and Arthur Haynes

with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head
I am walking, I am talking
I am listening to the voices

I lay me down
with the voice of conscience
with the voice of abstinence
with the voice of addiction

the voice of carnality, depression
the voice of repression, suppression
religion, obsession and dependency
the voice of forgotten civility, humanity

with the voices in my head
I lay me down to sleep
I cannot sleep
with the voices in my head

I cannot forget, can you even wonder
with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head
with the voices in my head…

                                ©edenbraytoday09.11.2021

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THE SHRUNKEN PAPS of BUDHA

tibet-ebc-tour

The Shrunken Paps of Buddha .. .

I lay the cobalt lanes stoney
  dusted grey-ink and pink
      ultramarined, wet-on-wet, carmined
      and speckled snowy

Tracing ketch shapes standing
  pencilled against a warm wind
  of deep, misted blue

There the slightest of jeanne filles reclining
  at the eye-line receding
, dressed holy-casual
  their robes the colour of flesh
  cut cantaloup

and the ochred redness of the shingle
      a heap of feeling transcendent, clean
            meditations of a simple way.

                              ©edenbraytoday30.11.2021

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I AM THE DOG WHISPERER

I am the dog whisperer!

f-in swan 3

I am treason I am subterfuge
I am carnality in a hot dog sausage
abandon hope ye dogs of war
lay your weapons on the floor

I am the dog whisperer
I speak of honest toil and sweat
upon the brow, the calloused hands
the arms in sun are glistening

I am the undertaker’s boy in black
I dig graves, wash the bodies
of the dead with spirit and with care
avert my eyes from all corruption

I am the major’s son deserted
I polish the gun that hangs
upon the wall so royal blue
a partizan, a lieutenant’s skivvy

I am the miller’s lad
who turns the wheel of fortune
who grinds the grain of virtue
who drinks the shame

I am beelzebub’s brother
I have no mother only pain
to share with others, abject 
despair, cauterised confusion

I am the day beyond tomorrow
the cygnet of the Swan
to rise high above your trouble
to build bridges of regrets

I am the dog whisperer
who cannot see but hear you
your high-pitched pain
sense you in the quietness

©edenbraytoday13.12.2021

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kyrie eleison .. .

kyrie eleison .. .

kyrie eleison

I stepped by the mythical tree
whose branches dressed in copper
whose arms reach out ever upward
trained on the ghost of Jacob Marley
her boughs and sprays convolvulate
lavish, adorned, purpled of paradoxicality
awkward, leaning jester, dried humour
paleontological quest, invigorating
opportunistic discovery is therefore
cloaked, camouflaged within context
of the whole mass, yearning, silent
bar the wind-rush, by the complexity
of nature’s intelligent transformation
a-corned fruit, spiralled propellor seed
whose fascination is in the germination
whose warmth, moisture, conception
like all living organisms gestate to birth
the genius of genus, myth to reality
the beauty of the aged tree who liveth
long as livid love its roots reaching down
down the soddy seam of nutrientology
the muddied stream of inherited ecology
fond form, fantastic, forever faithful folia
I adore thee as the life you gender
your appropriation as a financed institution
rich in mineral wealth you become the lender
treecreepers, apocrita, squirrels, leaf litter
excretions by your mother-heart pupendum
natures soldiers you shall live on longer
while the battles rageth

©edenbraytoday18.12.2021

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WHAT’S ALL THIS FUSS? (extended Batty edition)

WHAT’S ALL THIS FUSS?!

tears in the rain

Batty edition….

All this fuss over Charles Bukowski
most of his life no one knew who he was
working in diners washing dishes
any work that he could get
living like a cockroach hid from society
except that he wasn’t
he wasn’t a cockroach
who felt things deeply
saw things some people never will see
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe
those moments will be lost in time
like tears in rain
at the bottom of the life chain
where he wrote about things
less than ordinary
he typed it out strangely and discreetly
from the bottom of the food chain
where he turned things upside down

All this fuss about Charlie Bukowski
who wrote his true self out on paper
as though he had nothing to hide
as if all he had were his thoughts
about the things he saw
the things he felt
things he liked and hated
they proved to him he was human
and not a replicant
like Batty or Leon or Rachael
or anyone else that he met
like himself in the mirror
while he was washing
occasionally shaving
strong meat
like the women he met and loved
and was not afraid to talk of
from the bottom of the life chain
where he turned his world upside down

                                ©edenbraytoday20.11.2021

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DIARY OF A LINCOLNSHIRE SHEEPSTEALER

Diary of a Lincolnshire Sheepstealer

FIELD IN OLD BOLINGBROKE 1

this Lincolnshire .. .
…   …   …

Those squashed, brown, glassed marbles
  worth as much as a big taw or a boulder
in playground exchange, much as a
  ten second glance at showy-girl’s nickers
and the old girl is making cow-eyes at me
  she, twenty others or more are passing by
they, are eating grass before fertilising
  in various colours, they all have shiny eyes
.
This is Lincolnshire, nothing special is it
  the rabbits on the hop, the hares and badgers
in fields, in different shades of umber or sienna
  some pale, some clay, some colour of trout
jump in the fisheries, wake the sleeping man
  one of life’s mysteries from Grimsby to Valhalla
where the River Lym babbles or in Somersby
  you may listen in to thoughts of Tennyson
.
They say an otter was seen by Stickney dyke
  a place I often trundle on my old push-bike
I have not seen it but heard a scavenger cry
  a family of four buzzard that day I spied
full three mile away over auburn mountains of hay
  farmers build a maginot line across the county
haystacks, a fine artist’s sketch to add to my diary
  think on local art tradition of Charles Haseldine
.
Across the fens stretched like prairies of Wyoming
  that might with bleaching sun resemble Serengeti’s
springbok, antelope, rhino, in place of fallow and roe
  they wander free within confines of loyal, royal
stately homes and parks, stole by grassy wolds
  prove the lie that spills, no hills are in this shire, yet
dale and briar, moor and marsh, coastal fenland
  columns of birdlife affirm it as an international wetland
.
If I were a rovers son, a fenslodger with musket primed
  two barrels of lead, a fenland barge hidden in reeds
to bag a catch of godwit, brace of ruff, a plump bittern
  dressed in waders, a calico coat, three cornered hat
I would greet thee of the morn, we set sale on our dykes
  the tides rushing in or rushing out, my partner in crime
hums O God our Help In Ages past, smokes a clay pipe
  til the birds flew – the gargeneye, mallard for the stew

Then the Dutchman arrived with instruments of drainage
  an engineer of craft, a boy to put his finger in the hole
myth and fact until arrival of John Rennie, labour of many
  with pict and shovel they dug rivers, trenches, sluices
drained the fens, slodgers departed, paid for their trouble
  economy of farmland, towns, new people to pay taxes
houses built, where once swamps, new roads and tracks
  Lincoln grew as Boston, Caistor, tulips, sugar-beet n’ tats
.
Of Stamford, welcome ruling classes, best we can garner
  central hilly parts where dart deer and stoat, carrs the moat
I lay me down to Percy Grainger, Aussie stranger who fell
  for folk traditions, his wisdom to assay a yorkshireman
Frederick Delius, his music, coloured in our market towns
  from Brigg, Gainsborough in the north down to the Deepings

.
O’ flat lands, your skies of wonder
                                         cannot hold the thunder of their birth
  yet hold such lights that fall hallowed
                                         through to land upon the earth
.
The sheepmarkets, Viking Way, Scunthorpe town and Brumby
  names with Yorkshire drawl who on their knees crawl west
thus farmers had sway, rich topsoil, not tha’ many wages pay
  except thou were ‘farm servant’, denied wife, much life at all
till military call or news of higher wages surfaced on the borders
  or across the sea to New England or Albertland, New Zealand
a colony of 1,000 departed, excited by the conquest of the free
  we drafted fenland immigrants a’fore any from the Balkan sea
.
Buttercup sways in the meadow, old Lucy, other mothers bereft
  male herd journeyed to the abattoir alongside sheep, lamb, pigs
when once we travelled to market towns at Alford, Grantham and
  Market Raisen, ‘we’ now feed the likes a Asda, still doft the cap
travell in multi-layered pantechnicon, narrow roads, no passing
  I’ll not bandy words with thee, should thou mardy, laugh at me
this Lincolnshire on the wolds, by coast, marshes of the wash
  I came here bandit on the run, more sheepstealer than a poet
.
I carry my palliass, cut the colli’s wi’ a borrowed machete
  I watch amazing skies settle on the slough-bog, colours blinding
In the evening mizzling where St Hugh doth splawder into view
  not being of certainty of truth, requiring cash to fix kirks roof
note chimes of St Botolph, the spireless church we ne’er finished
  the spires of this shire are many, settled in their gentle dells
stand agin’ the sutty mumbles of an indigo sky that passes by, we 
  ont’ dark side of tha’ rainbow wi’ rooster crow, black footed jay
.
I stand atop the banks, watch fishing trawlers line up to return
  the Witham, the Humber along with tankers decked with lumber
from Norway, Scandinavia, immigrants aboard, cheat custom man
  some’s pockets lined with stash, cocaine, I hear the ships horn
I stand atop the banks, white owl advancing, a hare is prancing
  I seen a parliament of owls at Hobhole, Hen Harrier at Scremby
Midsummer Night’s Dream at Casterton, Black Swan at Conningsby
  yet never have I seen a better sky than those of Lincoln’s county

..

.
©edenbraytoday29.10.2021

..

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AN ODE TO A BOTTLE OF TULLAMORE DEW .. .

An Ode to a Bottle of Tullamore Dew

original-irish-whiskey

If thou being philosophical were an oil painting
    wrested of nazi crates, a stolen treasure
a carafe discovered, a hidden artefact
    one piece of art, the beauty of it’s naked shape
what discreet charm you full employ
    to speak of virtue by such stoic facade
your neck drawn haughty, slender as yon
    mystical okapi not lengthy like blonde giraffe
twere not an antelope nor elixir to travel so
    it’s Irish folklore carried through with history
skills of craft honed from within thy distillery
    uisce beatha taken out thy gaelic hame
by waters of the Shanon, the country lanes
    where the factory is built, in morning light
there falls the d.e.w. so pretty, a welcome sight
    lads n’lassies in their chatter, taunt n’flatter
off to thy work to earn a euro eu deux, it is a job
    that wee girl worth the fight for a night with you
the purpled sequins of the meaning we hold
    by Tullamore in Offaly in the Leinster valley
submit thy discourse by yon concourse,  take
    the tour, learn once more the unpleasantries
suffered, the tale n’dramas of Sir John’s barleycorn
    breath the aroma from copper stills ever warmed
and sip thy warmth by taste of malts preferred
    the sampling room is all you may have gathered
in your secret journey aloned by barroom thoughts
    Sir John won your tongue, leaves thee but naught
yet still remains a noble slake who double taunts thee       
    cares not how you spell your choice a’ whuskey
the rack, the burn, all connoisseurs addiction spurn
    around the teeth, thy gums, thy palette blessed
expunge memories o’ saddened, o’ manic depressed
    take the trains to Gallway Bay or roads to Ballyboy
Kilkormak, Clara, Edenberry I still hear you listening
    at the crossroads by Molloy’s Tinnycross Quarry
or in the glistening by the cement factory at Cloncollog
    a picture grows of a united Ireland, united in the north
at Giants Causeway through Tullamore all the way to Cork
    united dreams, o’ the apple o’ my emerald eye, fair
glas isle, where all disputes concerning sacredness of Ulster
    the complexities of faith are drownded by this holy water
from Cork to County Antrim, on to Tullamore n’silkie Donegal
    bring thy stooks down from thy mythical wagon
there winnow, sort an’ drowned then laid upon the malting floor
    turned to germination, baked in kilns then ground
mashed wi’ boiling water of this isle to cool, to wort
    with yeast thy wild congeners left to settle for a while
it waits the stills and distillation, till bound and gagged
    in stained barrels wound by iron hoops, there it stays

.

                                          ©edenbraytoday18.11, 2021

.

Author’s Extensive Notes

I read Keates ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ and was inspired to write 50 lines me-sell .. . that is the story

This could as easily be entitled – ‘An Ode to my Green-eyed sister – the sister I never had – my Roisin – born from the land o’ my mythical birth where my bonnie wee grandmother earned her clogs and danced a jig for me – for evermore my Irish Grannie you travel now with me an this bottle of juice – this water of life – I lift the glasses arse to thee my Adeline who spread your legs an’ bore me’ father – who spread his seed and birthed this Eede – o’ donkey bray and o’ asses brain and my poetic confusion – edenbray your poet – I curtsey, bow and lift my Irish kilt high for thee .. ..

Uisce beatha’ – literally “water of life”, is the name for whiskey in Irish. It is derived from the Old Irish uisce (“water”) and bethu (“life”).

edenbraytoday18.11.2021
..

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