Penwith, Cornwall... Penwith Art

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~~ Not a Blog ~~

~ A Penwith Hundred ~

oh, there'll be words she supposes (and he expects) - walking after rain with the wind blowing, down
tregenna hill and in a flapping raincoat, to a beach like in that antonioni film (beyond the clouds)
but not like that, but the back of an envelope, back of a fag packet (and writes it down) her number
and it's ring ring, ring ring, hello... is that you myfanwy, morwenna, whoever, my chagallian bride?
my dreamgirl dreamgirl, my dreamso dreamboat... come, let us be away aweigh to the sloop inn tonight

and piran in, you know, piran d'or, fought in some war or other, got medals and all, got a gammy leg
and he's up at the bar as usual, and here you he's saying to nobody in particular, to nobody at all,
you can feck off with your quantum entanglements and ditto your quarks! and nobody was listening and
feck was fuck anyway and he was proper cornish anyway, from way back when, ye olde cornish rebellion
in 1497, before then... and oh myfanwy, morwenna, whoever my love, high tide's rising, hold me tight

and the moon too, high and full, and a mad sea... sloshing and schlepping and slippery slip slopping
slooping even, outside the sloop with stupid rain falling and i get the call, i get the text, i'm at  
the tate she says, top of the steps, i've slipped the dress off, i'm having a wee, you wanna see? do
i wanna see i said? what? do i wanna see? i'm coming right now i said, i'll be there in a jiffy, and
oh myfanwy, morwenna, whoever my love, the tide is done and the waves spent and i must asleep to bed
and if that were the time, if that was the time to dream (and as if that were possible) - sitting at 
a desk and bringing up youtube on the laptop and playing an air guitar to money for nothing, playing
an air piano to an appassionata, swigging some tequila, clanking some keys and old tommy waits on an
upright in a corner of the swordfish and it's a friday night in newlyn (and the fishing boats in and
a good catch landed) and, yo, yo, proper job, my handsomes, proper job, and it's nos da, nos da, nos

da, nos da (that time then) and it's.. interior, exterior, daytime, nightime, sometime never but not
ever a movie script, or a tv script, and deffo not poetry (for sooth!) - the whole gang of them full
throttling on their mobility scooters on penzance prom, that time then with davy hume from hayle and
tommy hobbes from treen, remember him, others, all lined up in formation like they're the red arrows
and because there were seven of them, see, they called themselves... The Magnificent Wheezers... Ohh

but it was great to see them, it was great to be alive - they had missile launchers on their scooter 
sides and gatling guns for headlamps and oh Those Magnificent Wheezers in their Glorious Prime, they
knew how to live alright, alright... And oh, there'll be words she supposes (and he expects) the two
of them together in a flat in st ives, he reading autotrader and she virginia woolf and oh the waves
the waves she'd swoon... And then Look, Look, a feckin' lighthouse he'd reply, and then she'd say...

fancy a treat my sweet? and that time again, whenever, and on repeat? and he'd say, oh nothing much,
nothing much...

(eventually, 100 lines of 100 characters per line - a work in progress)

~ Keeping Sane ~