Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Metro Stances ~ Gareth Durasow

The rickshaw mice are all stone deaf, having spent their
youth scavenging the gap. They consider this for the best,
and the only way to skin a cat. Let’s pay them no mind,
just the racket of cash and safeguard ourselves from the
cobbled tour – we’d be fools to let this opportunity pass,
to put an arm round you but talk about me, and address
the complication posed by surgeons and students who in
waging a tug of war with my murderous guts have come
to know me best. Here’s to the evening when you’ll chip
your new nails and find bits of my blood underneath.

Scrap your plans to sell the sky for advertising space
because our new mannequins have webcams for faces,
or mirrors at least, and quash that sweatshop stigma
by telling you about a Panorama they watched where
those children were smiling – with music for uppers,
spared the indignity of raving with giants, the relative
leisure of building a polyester Jerusalem here: where
bubblewrap billows on the scarecrow trees and there
be bodies in them there hills. What we’re telling you
now is this: the model we flogged you prior was shit.

Dear Father, I’m apprenticed to the bloke in the back
whose duty is to re-adhere the flies to the replica heads
that the punters end up blundering through in the dark.
Son, imagine your city, the city of misnomers, its story
unfold in a minute or less. Consider the horror of the
populace petering off till one morning there’s nobody
about in the street – the poverty’s eaten its HD fa├žade.
Dear Father, I hope this photo will bring you over to
my way of thinking. We met at the closure of the last
laundrette. Her washer was caput. I was just fortunate.

The swan is Jesus, tranquil atop the effluent tide I’m in
knee-deep, tipping a pail over another stranded Beluga
beached in our garden, soon to explode & cover us with
entrails. My blubber-splattered bride how we danced in
their gore, in the middle of what once was winter – till
scrawny polar bears came mewling at our door. The kids
drank the water against the party’s advice, lost their lives
beneath the ice to sharks too weak to tackle stray dogs. I
serenaded you with a passing guitar under stars restored
to the sky since the city lights sank… a hell of a divorce.

Teach me to roll, my suddenly Rastafarian friend. The
improper authorities once kyboshed this cash cow so
basement empires like this one fell under the COSHH.
Let this millennium’s successors correct the dinosaurs’
skeletons once and for all, make use of our paper and
publish this crap before time turns the trees back into
stone, the elephant departs with her keeper in tow; no
evident reason until the tsunami collapses on London
arborists undercutting one another, Domino’s cyclists
running reds for a quid pro quo. Surely must be close.

If you’d care to lend a pen then I can start learning you
a lesson or two, beginning with why we’ve switched off.
Those who don’t write have to memorise this scenario
where a sardine goddess lost in the murder she’d wrote
flashes you her hopeless Underground smile like a death
sentence: priceless, which leads you to think about how
you’d like to pick the last bits of Kabuki Queen from her
cuticles. Then you remember you’ve never once written
a love letter. Now you can’t help but resent the poor girl.
And the accordionist’s rollicking seesaw shanties begin.

Gareth Durasow is a West Yorkshire poet, performer and playwright who has a tendency to run with the mainstream hares and the avant-garde hounds. His poetry and performances have won prizes at Ilkley and Huddersfield Literature Festivals and his plays for the award-winning theatre company Horizon Arts have won nothing at all. He also collaborates with the editors of Spine magazine to host Letterbomb, an open-mic event in Leeds city centre.

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