Airey Takes the Plunge (CW-SW)

[dedalus]

Airey was a friend in truth,

a fairy, yes, but not a poof.

A hardman called Reg

threw him off a high ledge.

It was a long way to tip poor Airey.

 

When I have fears that I may cease to be

far away from friends and family,

I think, by God, I might be odd,

but in my cheerful melancholy way,

I welcome change.

 

Death could be a holiday.

 

In fires forever burning,

on a spit forever turning,

I am a Turkish kebab.

I'm glad I never paid the tab

in all those clubs and bars.

Those fuckers will be raging!

Hold that thought for a second.

The idea is quite engaging:

they’ll be tearing their hair

as if I care.

 

I never thought,

I never thought I’d wake up

after I hit the ground

at ten zillion miles an hour.

Splat! That was that.

A wishy-washy lack of belief

affords but scant relief

for a falling agnostic.

Here is a falsely true acrostic:

Sweet dreams by icy lethal waters.

 

The myriad sons and daughters

of O’Leary of the Yellow Hand

have formed a sort of musical band

here in the place I’m at.

I told that them I couldn’t sing,

but they want to know what I can bring

to add to the balance of joy.

Oh, boy!

Where’s God?

He’s away.

 

Will I be dead for a long time?

Fuck, for as long as ye like.

Get on yer bike, resurrect some hobby

and make it last ten thousand years.

Keep your mind off things,

but stay away from collecting stamps:

hierophants and sycophants

make me want to wet me pants

revert to my psychosis.

 

Can I scratch myself and play with girls?

No, you can’t. You’re, like, disembodied.

What about this pain in me arse?

Imaginary, old son.

You can keep the pain

but yer pink little arse is dead and gone.

Where’s it gone to, so?

The Soap Factory.

 

In similar cold little brittle exchanges

I accommodate myself to certain changes.

 

Jayz, aren’t ye glad you're Catlick?

Y’wha?? Fuck you on about?

You should see the shabby sheds

Where they stick the poor sad feckin Neds.

The Jews have chic flats in the Mews

(they were right all along).

Baby, baby shake your thong

but don't you dare amuse.

What about the towel heads? Don’t ask.

I don’t ask. The Jehovahs?

They’re stuck with the oul’ whores

knocking on doors, forever and ever

and ever and ever.

 

This cheers me up

considerably. You know,

I could kill for a pint.

Are there any pubs in Hell?

Naturallement! As Monsieur knows well

The Squareheads, the Jocks and the Micks

couldn’t die without them. But there are

Czechs and Balances, like the Skandies

who have acquired a taste for shaving lotion.

Morose fuckers. Horrible songs.

 

Come here, ye wee fuck. Wha'?

We send people back from time to time.

Would you like to go? I don’t know.

Being dead's doin’ in me head,

but it’s not so bad, y’know?

Even so. Pack up and go:

you're off to the World of the Living.

Cease receiving, son. Start giving.

 

Right, then, here’s me,

rejected back to Life:

-- Suit, white shirt, necktie: check!

-- Red underpants, socks with clocks: check!

-- Sunglasses, watch, gold chains: check!

-- Cellphone, iPod, 3 rubber johnnies.

Hello there, Life, Allo, Allo!

Jeez, it’s fuckin raining.

I’m out of training.

I’ve forgotten how to talk

I can hardly bleedin walk

sedately. Innately, I feel

that none of this is really real.

 

I get a bang on the back of the neck

O Jayzus, damn, by heck!

My oppressor is a sharp cross-dresser

in a pink tutu and fawn little boots.

Hoo the feck, he says, are yoo?

Mon semblable, mon frere,

did you just come back from under there?

 

What if I did? Fuck it, whattya think,

will we call it quits and go for a drink?

Seventeen pints after,

ciggies, girls, and gurgling laughter,

it's home with sweet young Ivy Malone

on the Bakerloo, but she don’t live alone.

 

The thing to do, she tells me,

is to climb up the garden ladder.

She says I don’t want me fadder

or mudder to see yez. Haul away.

Show a light in the windy, sweet darlin,

Show a light where I can see yez,

yer pearl-white arms,

abundant charms!

And here’s a little kiss,

A promise of a night of bliss.

 

I feel so drained

yet self-contained

as I gaze into the glass:

a faint recognition

of the apparition

I know to be myself.

Dead, mislaid, or on the shelf,

but this, I think, shall pass.

Her flashing eyes!

her thunderous thighs!

all in two words explained:

she's convent-trained.

 

Heave-ho, puff and blow!

Sky is high and ocean deep:

Will she never go to sleep?

 

Ah, it’s not so bad to be alive

again. I can’t remember when

it felt this cool. The general rule

is to keep the head down low

and let the winds just rage and blow

around you, just like Ivy Malone

in her shoebox of a room

up there on Dollis Hill.

I close my eyes, I can remember still

that night I was her only man,

her posters of Duran Duran.

 

Being dead's not so bad

once you get the hang of it, like.

The thing is being killed,

being shot or stabbed or smashed to bits

or tossed off a high building;

that’s the bit I don’t much care for.

 

Reg had hairs sprouting from his nose

and a bit of a ripe smell about him,

so when he pushed me off the roof that day

I had a bit of a snob thing about him,

not in my league, I’d have to say.

I was thinking about that on the way down.

 

Time to pay a visit to Reg.

I can just see his moonlike pasty face

as he takes my presence in.

Holy fuck! the icy uncanny wedge

of fear. I smile, I like that.

But things seldom work out

quite as one expects: in most respects

death and life are quite unfair.

I stand before this old armchair

and gaze on Reg, an unprepossessing sight,

it appears that he's been out all night

and looks the worse for wear;

he's wheezing, snorting through his nose,

wearing filthy clothes, and drunk as a coot,

definitely not the least bit cute.

 

When he wakes up, I’ll casually top him.

I'll cut his throat when I know he knows.

But not a moment before he really knows.

Then I suppose I’ll walk into the hall,

push the button for the elevator

and descend. I need a friend,

but I have no friends at all. I was in love

and then I wasn't in love.

I was also once in life,

but now no longer in that.

Snow falls on the distant mountains.

There are dreams by icy lethal waters.

[tonyv]

All right, I'm putting a content warning in this one. Please do it yourself from now on ... it really is a simple rule to follow.

 

(I'll put one in your that girl poem, too.)

 

I hope to get to reading this one carefully soon.

[dedalus]

You're quite right. I get carried away. Apologies!!

[dedalus]

Every damn poem I write seems to have this CW-SW label. I'm beginning to feel Welsh ... at least in the spelling department!! Clwyd. They have a town there called Mold, apparently. I know the feeling.

[tonyv]

Awe, comeon ... Look, I love your poems, and, at first, I didn't say anything in the other topic, because the poem only contained one small hardly-noticeable infraction.:roll: (Someone else said something to you about it in that topic, but I did not.) Then, when I saw this, it seemed like a blatant, over-the-top flouting of a not-so-rigidly enforced rule.:roll: Had you put the warning in this one yourself, the other one probably wouldn't have one now (unless someone complained).;) But okay, what's done is done ...

 

Please understand, we have to have the rule. The only other options would be either (a) anything is okay on anyone's topic (even in replies) anywhere on the site (unacceptable), or (B) across-the-board censorship/editing/deletion of poems (also unacceptable, other than perhaps in the rare case, IMO). If the rule is respected, we probably won't have any cause to edit for swears or delete anyone's poem or anyone's comment on poems that display the warning. It's the happy medium: you get to post poems with swears, and (though I don't prefer it), you get to swear (though not ridiculously) in the other topics which display the warning. The same goes for others who are replying in your topics. For example, if your poem displays the warning, someone could write, "I love this fucking poem!" and no one who opened and read the topic would have just cause to complain about the poem or the reply. If the topic didn't contain the warning because the author didn't use any swears, the reply would have to be edited by board moderation to look like this: "I love this [content deleted by moderator] poem!" Plus, whoever insisted on continuing to reply like that on poems which don't display the warning would have to be warned not to do that. Of course, we trust that members would also strive to balance their replies with the poems. For example, if someone puts a content warning in his poem because he used the word "ass," and someone else replies with an obscenity-laced tirade, the reply could require moderation. That's why we also make it clear in the rules that the administration will be the final arbiter in these matters. We hope you will continue to trust us in that capacity.

 

When I wrote the rule, I was (and remain today) sensitive to the issues around this. That's why I tried to make the content warning designation(s) (like CW-SW) as unobtrusive as possible. Think of it like an MPAA designation for a motion picture: the poems that display it are "rated 'R'," and that's certainly no "badge of dishonor." My own poems to date are rated "G" for general audience :roll:, but someday I may cut loose and "take a walk on the wild side." Then, if I don't put the warning next to the title of my own volition, my co-admin will surely do it! Okay, we don't really allow poems rated "X," but I can think of one recent one which came close. That one has the warning, and neither that one nor any other one to date has been edited or otherwise tampered with by board moderation. I think it's a win-win situation, and I hope you'll help us out by helping to keep the peace.

 

Btw, I love this poem.

 

Tony

 

PS -- Perhaps we could explore modifying the rules by changing the warning designation to a simple "R" for poems containing swears and/or erotic content. I wonder if that would be more palatable? If so, we'll toss that idea around a bit ...

[dedalus]

I'm not complaining, Tony. I think you're totally right in maintaining standards. I'm sorry if I gave you a different impression!!

 

Ars longa, vita brevis ... onwards and upwards! Gongs and whistles and bells.

 

Brendan