Cool Song, Shitty Poem


I’m obsessed with Future Islands at the moment and implore people to check out at least a minute of this, the most joyous live performance I’ve ever seen. It’s confounding and brilliant, and I could compare it and its singer to a hundred other things, but I’d rather enjoy it for what it is.

Emma says I dance like this when I get really into it, which is sort of funny, but mostly mortifying. I remember getting separated from my friends one time at some club on the Gold Coast. I made the best of it and danced on my own. This nearby couple started talking to me and pointed out that I was out of time with the beat. They weren’t dicks about it; it was more like a casual pointer to a fellow drunk. I just smiled and was like cool, yeah, thanks. I then fist-pumped and declared I dance to my own fucking beat. Not really, but I think it was implied.

Play the song, you jerk.



Also, here’s some esoteric nonsense I wrote yesterday to shake off the doldrums. I once found writing free-form poetry extremely liberating. When I write prose, I feel like the weight of the world’s on my shoulders. I don’t identify as a poet, so if I write a shitty poem it’s like who cares? The world won’t end. (I accept full responsibility if it does.) Anyway, thought I’d try to see if I could recapture that old feeling.

In the spirit of embarrassing dancing, here’s this.

Enjoy. Or don’t. Whatever.

‘I’m like a bird! I’ll only fly awaaay!’

 

Albatross

Been getting ’round lately

on a giant bird:

Detachment.

Its wingspan

casts a shadow

over most things.

 

Unsure if

problems below are to scale,

so adrift they’re cast:

to be dealt with by some

other version of me

(that can’t be conceived,

let alone actualised).

 

Peace of mind

slips between bars;

attention

through cracks in fingers.

They disappear on the wind.

Up here,

I’m unseen and

hold no candles.

 

Search the self

(as one is wont to do

on bird back),

falter at locked doors

whose passwords were

misplaced years ago

and whose handles

have, anyway,

rusted in the sea air.

 

Dive and swoop,

catching updraughts,

disappearing for days

in caves;

the depths of my loneliness,

I’ve

never seen the bottom.

 

The skyline grows hazy,

shuttered rooves

are waves, cresting,

and this is very much

the middle of the ocean.

Advertisements

Wilco Will Love You, Baby

I’ve been a fan of Wilco for a while now. They’re the only international act I’ve paid to see more than twice, and their diverse and ecclectic catalogue has variously appealed to my teenage and adult hearts. In my opinion, they haven’t put a foot wrong.

Naff as it sounds, Wilco’s music is a constant inspiration to me. I’ve discovered the seeds for stories and poems in the soundscapes of their songs. For instance, there’s an old story of mine, ‘Gun Grey Maverick’, that has many parallels to the song ‘Bull Black Nova’, and various other Tweedy lyrics have springboarded me towards my own writing ideas. As such, I have to credit Wilco and Jeff Tweedy as major influences. They were instrument in my formative years and played a part in helping me discover my writing voice. Continue reading