Tag: Abendland (page 6 of 12)

bad boy scouts wearing red
bandannas & hiking boots prowl
the outdoor bars bringing alpine
airs to ljubljana – i won’t be
climbing the steps to the castle
won’t conquer what’s not even
there (the view the haze) instead
i’ll walk around photographing
pink buildings for you … do you
remember that cold afternoon at
sheherezade after the mallarme
gig? i can see why you liked it
here where the boys ride bicycles
& sit by the river smoking long
whites joints – & even sparrows
sport beckham spikes & boys bum
cigarettes from strangers for
a lark – i missed primoz by two
weeks but there’s poetry here in
the inventiveness of the street
performers or the flowers on the
cobblers’ bridge … i know that
somewhere here there’s a boy you
once loved if even for that one
short visit – it’s summer & all
the pastel’s aglow despite the
crumbling flaking skins i can
hear you & only wish these few
photographs could capture their
audible decline – the boys whose
hair alone makes me feel so much
older & so much younger than even
this breathless poem ever could

so i made some tapes from
sonsg i ripped off the internet
fed the cabel from the computer
into my [pre-ipod] walkman but
the songs all came out mono got
the wrong stereo jack so now i
listen to the songs in one ear
while the other tries to hear
leans in yearns for the music
& my brain too (this interface)
tries to reconvert to create
a whole town or district from
the one channel i’ve given it
on the ferry i felt like belfast
like a city caught in the cross-
fade that moment between beats
when anything could happen – if
violence erupts i will think of
my brother & of sinn fein – of
murals of armagh & of the bloody
weekdays/ weekends yearning for
stereo sanctity cursed by my own
lack of tech (my pre-digital tape
deck … boys whose anthems need
no vinyl no top of the pop-offs
& with this wind in my hair or
these drunk americans who believe
all croatians are up themselves
i’m listening with that other
ear to music: the peacemaker &
the mix-tape that saves all of us
from monotonous virulent fade-outs

well it’s summer in sipan
& the town is full of models
they’re all at the restaurant
but they’re only eating entrees
while the eunuchs dart around
making stressful little sounds
in the leafy hotel grounds
we ate dinner then we ran
yeah that summer in sipan

well it’s summer in sipan
we go riding with maria
she’s got white bleach in her hair
she looks like sinead o’connor
& it’s thirty eight degrees
& we can’t find any trees
by the end i’m on my knees
holding ice cube sin my hands
yeah it’s summer in sipan

well it’s summer in sipan
& we’re kayaking together
through a turquoise coloured sea
full of motor boats & fishes
& the boats are making waves
& the bay becomes a grave
for the kayak we can’t save
time to make another plan
yeah it’s summer in sipan

well it’s summer in sipan
& we’re swimming off the jetty
with the girls all deeply tanned
& the guys with giant six packs
next to them i feel a dork
they’re the cheese & i’m the chalk
i can barely even talk
to my so-called fellow man
& it’s summer in sipan

well it’s summer in sipan
& we’re riding home in darkness
along narrow little lanes
waiting for a car to pass us
just to shed a little light
on our path i hope it’s right
i don’t want to get a fright
riding straight into a dam
well it’s summer in sipan

well it’s summer in sipan
& here comes the little ferry
time to head back to the town
for our last night in dubrovnik
& the boat goes up & down
drowning out the ocean sounds
while the stars go turning round
like a big electric fan
yah it’s summer in sipan

[repeat to fade …]

the planes fly well overhead now
& couples no longer dawdle down
by the jetty where an old dinghy
rises & falls on the fluke waves
of passing powerboats … & now
cicadas chorale across an empty
bay old pipes protrude from the
muddy shallows & the trees though
blooming still billow untended &
unloved (though the summer & this
giant cross remain drifters are
its only pilgrims – snorkellers
scan the basin for discarded
bikinis or martini glasses (the
old wreck of a hotel still hopes
for a reunion with its past loves
the storms at sunset or the mock
evacuations – shells bursting
underfoot as the guys with their
miniature five string ukeleles
serenade two lovers demolishing
a lobster – all gone to the great
fairground in the sky now packed
up like crates of beer bottles
shipped off to another island
another beachside retreat for
nuns with cystic fibrosis …
now i hear the choppers swing
low coming in for their daily
sightseeing pass – dissecting
sea mist like it’s cold cabbage
inspecting our abandoned futures
like so many sad real estate agents