So it begins
Ode to Past Future Past
A Poem by Andy Scorah
The whispering voices of past times
lead us to a knowledge of future crimes
we live in a world raped by greed and desire
with corrupt power to burn in etherial fire
A world drowning in the deeds of man
Save us from Kings with a dasterdly plan
Smoke and mirrors are the games they play
And we are the pawns to be held in sway
Pain and hardship are their stock in trade
we better pull together to make the grade
In the pages of history our voices will fade
And the freedoms of our ancestors we will have betrayed.
The Last Gentleman Tramp
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
Just a little ditty to our local city Tramp Tbag Pete, In the uk we call them tramps I changed it to Hobo for my American freinds,prefer Hobo anyway,more elegant than tramp and Pete is a Hobo.
"
You roam Dylan's land
with your swag bag in hand
looking for a place
you move with such grace
A freeman of the land no idea of sin
part of a people that don't fit in
not bound by the cages of lifes light within
about the streets like a modern day Huckleberry Finn
In Swansea town
you wear the crown
unofficial King of the Hobos would make you frown
part of the landscape wearing a Hobos gown
At night in the drinking quarter
you stand and watch the beer fueled slaughter
and listen to the music like an ethereal hawker
no slave to that night or whore of the daily dustbin porter
Tbag Pete they call you but is that your name
You did not ask for this kind of fame
You did not want to join in the game
So wander you do wearing no shame
With your life so free
and empty of worrying chi
I just wanna say don't you see
we should envy you Mr Hobo life's absentee.
Tomorrow Today
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
Kids of today tomorros leaders.
"
As I walk these roads on broken heels
I look around and wonder what I really feel
Beneath the veil of silent tears
My soul is bared with all its fears
While the dogs of war cry havoc
bringing on the harbingers of black luck
I see the cities and towns pass me by
leave each border with a timeless sigh
What scares me most in these troubled times
The youth of today skanking for dimes
Kids having kids with no sense of shame
Living a life so full of melodrame
From Beijing to Boston its all the same
Kids killing kids for sleights of respect fortune and fame
And who is to blame
Look in the mirror the blame has your name
And so the journey goes on
time passes and soon it is gone
What future there is
is in the hands of kids that kill kids.
Alternative Alien Aliteration
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
Empty of mind and let each word come into life all by itself.
"
Crude crunchy creatures
Licked lucky leaches
sitting silently sleeping
Farmers falling far
Part patterned pavements
Attenuated attention attrition
Cars calling carnage
Weep weekly welders
die dissected diddycoys
And It Moves On
MANCHURIAN MACHINATION
A Poem by Andy Scorah
It is what it is, and whatever it is, is what you want it to be
In a Manchurian world of Lysergic dreams
The world is not as it may seem
Just like Marco and Shaw turned into a political whore
Stalking the streets till you reach the killing floor
Was the queen of diamonds your call to war
Or Salinger's angst ridden tome
That made you carry a Glock from your home
Was it murderous visions driving you through the door
The soundtrack to your mental machinations
As the bodies hit the floor
Do you think your a soldier of the class war
Victims ain't we all of your death dealing gyrations.
Thatchers Spawn
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
Just a rant at the return of the Thatch
"
In stygian dreams the reaper will play
He will look at you your entire glamor in sway
You think you know best without reason or rhyme
But you don’t realise you’re wasting your time
At the height of your power by old Benny’s shadow
You ensnare us all in a political tango
You open your mouth and give us the spin
If you are wise you will take it on the chin
For lies they spew no doctrines that are true
And we are enslaved by their Machiavellian sway
So on we go life day after day our pockets grow smaller while they take our pay
Our streets grow deep with the detritus of living
While life goes on but the bag rats unforgiving
In your high castle you sit playing at god
Then smacking us all with your priministerial rod
The Iron Lady came before
With her policies brought our world down to the floor
Brother against brother and father against son
When she lost her crown we thought we had won
Now Thatcher’s children are in the house of evil
Weaving her magic like a Boolean weevil
And on it goes because we put them there
Believing their lies we let the spectre rise
Now they are here without compromise
And the reaper arrives once more in a suit his disguise.
Freedom aka Benthams dream.
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
Is freeedom an illusion.
"
Cities of gold now gone so cold
Full of creatures with slime in their souls
For gods are now the contents of your wallet
The eternal Jester sings a leprous sonnet
Watched by Orwellian eyes at every corner
And freedom is a word that is whispered by mourners
In a Panopticon world of Bentham's dream
Our lives are sutured like a surgical seam
In the dark we cry for life's loves lost
Freedom we cry whatever the cost
And TPOB say but you are free
And laugh and say but only if we agree.
47 Samurai
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
A tale of honour
"
Forty seven who served and died
Giri and Bushido their binding cords
That drove them to draw their swords
Into karmic destiny they did ride
Two years laid waste to cherry blossom nights
Drinking and whoring delayed their plotting
Falling down drunks no fear were they breeding
Lord Kira spied on Samurai blights
Genroku fifteenth the oath is reborn
While the wind did howl and the snow did fall
Forty seven Ronin heeded the call
To honor their master their actions foresworn
To the beat of a drum and without delay
Lord kira's abode they did storm
Over his retainers forty seven did swarm
Heading the lessons of ten-shin Sensei
Hideing in the shadows Lord Kira was found
Bushido bound they gave him a chance
To end it all with the seppuku dance
For him the terror no words could resound
Without a word he was sent to his grave
Off came his head
Blood so red
Time to leave Kira's enclave
In sengaku-Ji to their masters grave
The story before them had travelled its way
With praise and drinks onto the endplay
Celebration fitting for those so brave
Against the shoguns will the forty seven did act
Warriors true right up to the end
Standing shoulder to shoulder their oath will impend
They followed Bushido, filial piety fulfilled by their pact
Thou shalt not tread the same soil as the enemy of thy Lord
Thus their duty done
They took their lives beneath the rising sun
Forty seven died by the spirit of the sword
Death poem by Anon
tahdachi ya
toshi to kitte
koromogae
Time to go
They say the journey is a long one
change of clothes
ROCK AND ROLL MISH MASH
A Poem by Andy Scorah
Between the devils and the angels
A fire is burning in my soul
when i see the hoary dreams of a charlatans eagles
I realize my time is gone
The streets on fire
with my lady's desire
Tattooed in hell
While guitars crashed
And drums did roll
The man with the tigers eye trying to save my soul
The reaper walks among us
He knows all our names
And hangs out with Bacchus
Dreaming of the purging flames
And sitting up high on the rock
Watching the raggedy man heels clocking on the dock
With Hitchcock eyes and a warlocks speech
fingernails trailing blackboard screech
Another switchblade night
silhouetted lovers in the moons cadaverous back-light
Lips lingering, fingers browsing a virgins delight
Shake this town from your back
Before it bears down and you become a throwback
you know not what it is you do
This ain't no haiku
Nobodies mental kung-fu
Its just a flow from my cranial fu man chew
Words dripping in ones and two
come to my keyboard via digital virtue.
Moving On
THE CROW { IT CANT RAIN ALL THE TIME}
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
A man comes back from the dead to seek vengence for him and his dead lover
Tribute to one of my favourite films"
It can't rain all the time
said the girl with sad eyes
And the crow saw the sign
taking to the skies ....it flies
They were killed on a night when demons roam
Shelley and Eric in loves fresh bloom
They broke down his door and entered his home
with lascivious glee
and wanton desire
They cast Draven out with colts deadly fire
Through the window he crashed the demons hit home
Sad eyes by the grave her heart was enslaved
By the sadness that engulfed, the friends that she craved
Sarah was she, a waif and a stray
Her mother, a slave to morphias way
He heard the crow call, after night did fall
And out of the grave Draven did crawl
Under a gibbous moon, Draven called Shelley's name
But he knew, she was out of the game
Through the dark streets and alleys, he did roam
Till finally he returned home
While guitars played, a heavenly strum
The crow watched on, anticipating the fun
The demons partied as but they would
Abashed the Devil stood and felt how awful goodness is
For when the city burns he revels in what will be his
Greed is for amateurs. Disorder, chaos, anarchy: now that's fun!
But the crow watched them with hungry eyes, the time had begun
In the mirror a painted smile, guitars playing to a heavenly choir
His heart in pain for the loss of his love
Tonight was his night, he would burn them in his revenging fire
The crow was his eyes his ears
The demons would face him on this night of fear
Tin Tin in the alley of rats, tonight is the night this life you will quit
MURDERER
Murderer, man? Murderer? Let me tell you all about murder. It's fun, it's easy, and you gonna learn all about it
Tin Tin did say : I'd like you to meet two buddies of mine. We never miss.
Flashing blades spun through the night their deadly points looking for skin to split
Draven took them from the air returned them to their master with deaths deadly kiss
Darla in the house of pain, served them their shots, for a needle full of rain
In it goes filling her vein
The crow was there through the window it came
T-bird saw it, and Draven too came
This one was easy, he died on the bed
T-bird lay there with his blood so red
Turning to Darla like a mime from hell, his face unhidden
Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children
Sarah is waiting for you her love is unbidden
Go to her, a second chance I have given
One by one the demons did fall
They all died a year ago when devils night did fall
And now on this night back with the crows call
Revenge is what he needed most of all
And after this night to Shelly's arms
He will return to his dead loves charms
Top dollar was the last to his place they flew
To late for him, in the church of desire the die was cast
And as thunder rolls and lightning did flash
I have something to give you. I don't want it anymore. Thirty hours of pain all at once, all for you.
Through T-birds body the pain was his due
The deed was done back to the grave for his love so true
Shelley came for him in the mists of night
The crow looked on it was the end of the fight
Their love was true and oh so right
And good deeds were done on this devils night
To heaven ascended hearts so tight
Forever love
The crow took flight.
BORN TO THUNDER
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
A tribute to Bruce Springsteen
"
Madman drummers bummers and Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat
A leather jacketed rocker working the six strings playing out a future skat
Cut loose like a deuce, another strummer in the New Jersey night
Heading down the highway to Darlington county
Rocking like he was born on the fourth of july
In a deadmans town strumming for your bounty
Those subway sages sitting like the living dead
and those south side sisters sure look pretty
when your playing just to earn some bread
That maximum lawmans still burning up flamingo with the rat and the barefoot girl
From the churches to the jails they hear the music that makes the head whirl
In incandescent heat the bare foot girls still drinking beer on the hood of that Dodge
And the man flashes his guitar like a switchblade hustling for the crowd
Born in the usa to the sound of a future beat
you took to the stage for our fun
cause tramps like you were born to thunder
and rip our souls asunder
THIS WORLD - a rant
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
a selective view of the world today
"
Take a look around and tell me what you see,hear, feel
Is it goodness, freedom, happiness, as we go round on this big wheel
Each of us a microcosm floating in singular form
Touching and parting since we are born
From the high thrown of power going down the line
you are told what you see, hear, feel, do you think thats fine
One day its good for you next day its bad
And we go along because they who tell us went to university dad
We are dumbed down from birth to death
Conditioned to this life wear this, eat that, watch this.
Its all vitreous imagery and a false babys breath
A Panopticon world delivered with a molasses kiss
It starts with the young girls have dolls, boys have guns
It continues in schools you have to do and learn what they say
Told to be societal fathers and sons
Toe the line in this powerplay ballet
Hate and prejudice now fill this world
Separation and segregation hold sway too
Mans inhumanity to man increasingly unfurled
It began with the king of the sand pit and his playground crew
We have forgot the writings of dusty codex
Our neighbour now hated where once there was love Manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination spoke Malcom X
We are ALL immerced in a shackled curse rained down from above
No easy walk to freedom there will be
To shake off these rightous chains
The world needs to open its eyes and see
Eliminate greed power prejudice learn to love, feel, hear and see.
End of a year
A Poem by Andy Scorah
Another year ends
And the world turns
We raise a glass to absent freinds
And sing the versus of Mr Robbie Burns
Empty words and empty hearts
We have entered a cycle of madness awry
Is it a dream of Descartes
Or time for the Orwellian goodbye
Nature abhors a vacuum
The absence of goodness created thus
Mr G closed the door and vacated the room
Now we enter the age of vagarious mistrusts.
Not a Poem but one of my stories.
THE ROAD TO WHEREVER
A Story by Andy Scorah
"
A biker heads for redemtion. Can one good deed take you to heaven.
"
The Road To Wherever
The road to nowhere, and everywhere, stretched into the shimmering distance. Blackie halted his Hog, a Harley Nightster, at the crest of a hill and gazed into the distance. The heat of the eternal sun hammered down unabashed onto the tarnished blacktop, which disappeared into a shimmering haze in the distance. He took a swig of water from his cowboy cup as he referred to the water canister strapped to his pannier and swept a leather-clad arm across his face. There was silence all around except for a whisper of wind as it swept across the desert floor. The only sign of life was a sidewinder slinking across the blacktop, looking for a home Mr Slinky.
Blackie sighed and gunned the engine, continuing his journey along route unknown. He did not care what name or number this road had nor did he care about the names of the towns he passed through. I t had been that way ever since he had returned from Hells county, that little swathe of sand in the middle east, run by and inhabited by madmen and all trying to kill him and his buddies. The memory of what made him join up had vanished in the mists of time for he had no need of the money, indeed he never had to work again for the rest of his life as his parents had left him millions in their will. A car accident took the life of his parents when he was ten years old and the money placed in trust until he was 21. Blackie, real name Wayne Blake, had been under fire somewhere in Helmand province when he morphed into the multi-millionaire he was today. No way was he going to be a spoilt little rich kid and so he had joined the ranks of his countries finest, pushing himself harder than he ever had in his life, earning his place through blood sweat and tears. Blackie had done his time. He had seen friends die, seen sights that would curdle the blood with the inhumanity of it all before catching a bullet, which sent him back home. After ten years, he had had enough and so his career ended with the heady rank of Sargent first class and he headed off into the bad lands of a civvie life.
Thirty years old and with no idea what he wanted to do with his life but with buckets loads of money with which to do it. A memory resurfaced of a television show he used to enjoy, Renegade, about the exploits of Reno Raines, bounty hunter and cop on the run. Riding around the country on a Harley righting wrongs, and that is where he found his immediate future, not the righting wrongs bit but the idea of travelling from place to place on a hog appealed to what he supposed was the gypsy in him . So here, he was, two years later, cruising along the blacktop into the shimmering heat haze of his future.
Blackie and his hog crested the brow of another hill and saw in the distance a collection of buildings that was the next stop on this road to nowhere. He decided he would pull in here as the sun was sinking low on the horizon and tonight he fancied sleeping in luxury without the dessert floor as his bed. He gunned the bike harder and the buildings drew near. He passed a bullet-riddled sign that said you are entering the town of Bardo, have a Hell of a day and a Heavenly stay.
He entered the town and pulled up outside a roadhouse called Ernie’s Hoedown, a low one story building in the pueblo style. Two old timers eyed him with the eyes of stranger fear. He climbed off the Hog and took off his goggles. Hanging them from the handlebars he swept back his long hair and used an elastic band to tie it into a pony tail aka Reno Raines. Dusting down his black jeans, he nodded at the two olds before stepping into the cool of the bar.
He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Steve Earl was singing about Guitar Town on the battered jukebox, he scanned the room and took in the two pretty blondes at the pool table, bottles of Coors light perched at the edge of the table. Two more olds were sat playing cards at a table near the bar, their poison of choice Rheingold extra dry. The bar tender a solid bulk of a man was sat at the bar reading a newspaper and smoking a rolled cigarette. He looked up at Blackies approach.
“Hi there what can I get ya?” he said in a surprisingly pleasant voice.
“Whiskey straight, whateva ya got” Blackie sat himself at one of the four bar stools.
The bar keep got up and went behind the bar and poured him a good shot of Woodford Reserve, Blackie handed him the money and drank half of the drink at once, relishing the feel of the alcohol filling his system.
“Just passing through?” the bar keep asked as he passed him his change.
“Wondered if there was any place to stay in town for the night?”
“Maries place at the far end of town, it’s cheap and comfortable” he used a cloth to wipe down the bar in front of Blackie.
“We don’t get many visitors this time of year so ya’ll have the place to yourself,” he offered.
Blackie finished his drink and thanked the bar keep before walking back outside, the olds had gone. He looked up Main Street, which was deserted, not even any cars parked. The whole place had the feel of a ghost town, a town dying on its feet, but he did not care so long as he got a bed for the night.
He climbed onto his Harley and gunned the engine before slowly cruising up Main Street, he passed a store that was closed for the day and what appeared to be a sheriff’s office, and these were interspersed between private homes, a medical centre that was boarded up, and a school also boarded up. He found Maries place on the left at the far end and separate from the other buildings and the only two-storied building in Bardo.
A women of about fifty years was brushing down the porch when he pulled up in front, she looked up at the sound of Blackies bike.
“Now then yer a fine lookin fella” she said as he climbed the three steps to the porch.
“Guy at the roadhouse said ya might have a room for the night?”
“Sure fella, come on in”
She led him into a hallway, pleasantly lit by a lamp on an occasional table by the stairs and a smell of disinfectant permeated the air with a minty freshness.
“I’m not really a hotel just rent ma rooms out to people who want a bed, keeps me in the good lords graces bein a good Samaritan n all” she led him into a comfortably furnished room without any signs of 2010, no plasma TV or stereos, just comfortable seating and a piano in the corner.
Blackie sat down and she asked him if he wanted a drink or anything. He replied coffee would be fine. She disappeared into the back of the house and he settled into an armchair, the weariness he had not realised he felt slowly ebbing from his bones.
She returned shortly with two coffees and a plateful of biscuits and settled in a chair across from him.
“Oh my where are my manners” she took a sip of coffee-“My names Marie Gabriel”
“Wayne Blake, but my friends call me Blackie” he answered-“So what’s this town’s story?”
“Bardo? It’s just a place to go through to help you decide your destination”
Blackie frowned at her answer.
She threw her head back and laughed, a rich sound that filled the room.
“Don’t fuss yerself none Wayne, whatever you’re looking for the answer is here”
She’s a crackpot!
“I only wanna lay my head for a while, thass all”
“And so you shall, best beds in town I have”
Blackie finished his coffee and she showed him to his room. He was glad when she left him on his own. The room was like the rest of the house, comfortable with a king-size bed and a deep mattress that he sank into. Within seconds, he was asleep, just like the cowboys of old with his boots still on.
He awoke next morning with the sun shining through the still open curtains. His mouth felt like day old road kill and probably smelt like it too. Blackie listened but the house was silent and felt empty. He went downstairs but could find no sign of Marie so he went outside. His bike was still parked where he left it. Going back inside, he left a few dollars on the table, called Maries name but received no answer. Shrugging he returned to his bike and gunned the engine. A sound made him look up, a smartly dressed couple seeming incongruous to their surroundings, were standing at the top of the stairs, they seemed familiar somehow. They smiled and waved. He looked behind but no one was there, when he looked back the couple had gone. Was he going mad, seeing things now. He knew of Vets that suffered from the horrors of war but he was not one of them. He must still be exhausted from his travels, and he was hungry, time to go get food. That is what it was. He drove back into town to Ernie’s, but it is closed and still no sign of anyone anywhere. Ok time to hit the road, hopefully he would find a town a little further down the highway that was not as strange as this one. He backed out onto Main street and with a scream of Harley audio poetry, blitzed down main street, the buildings passing in a blur of stucco visuals, at the town line a huge dust cloud swept across his vision and he slowed down less he became road kill of the day. When the cloud passed, he was amazed to see he was passing Bardo’s pockmarked sign, Hell of a day. What the fuck!
He pulled up outside Ernie’s, the door was open now, and the barkeep stood there smiling next to the couple he had seen at Maries. They waved and disappeared inside. He got off his bike in the middle of Main Street and headed towards the door. Just before he entered, he smelt a coppery smell and for an instant a deep pain ran through his chest, Blackie fell to his knees. The pain passed and he entered the building. No one else was inside except the barkeep who was potting balls at the pool table.
“Glad you could join us son,” he said.
“What’s goin on?” he asked, confusion in his voice and painted over his face like a mimes' mask.
“You been judged and the door chosen, you could have left but you paid” he pointed to the toilets with his pool cue; “Your parents are waiting for you” he faded away to nothing.
Blackies mind whirled but he felt no fear, a whispering voice said, time to rest son your fight is over, what was given so is taken away.
A brief vision passed before his eyes, bullets flying as his comrades dived out of the Humvee, as he went to exit he felt a dull thump to his chest a brief blackness and he was back in Ernie’s, the door to the male toilets opened and his father stepped out.
“Time to go home son, you’ve earned your place”
With a single tear rolling down his cheek and without a backward glance, he joined his parents in heaven. Amen.
Impressum
Texte: Andy Scorah
Bildmaterialien: Andy Scorah
Lektorat: Andy Scorah
Übersetzung: Andy Scorah
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 12.02.2012
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