Blue Movie E-Book

Bobby Parker

• Herausgeber: Nine Arches Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 38

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Bobby Parker's poems play truth or dare, baring the soul of the small town blues: undaunted by subject matter and fearless of propriety or prettiness, he writes with dynamic clarity of frightening, lonely places within and without our selves. In this debut collection, Parker holds back on nothing – both daringly up-front and utterly candid, Blue Movie veers between disaster, horror, comedy, sex, drugs, love and parenthood with dare-you-to-laugh brilliance. Along with their starkness and mucky-faced honesty, these poems are meticulously crafted, canny, and always one step ahead.

Leseprobe

Blue Movie

Blue Movie

Bobby Parker

ISBN: 978-0-9927589-7-4

Copyright © Bobby Parker, 2014

Cover photograph © Matthew Wyndham

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, recorded or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Bobby Parker has asserted his right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

First published October 2014 by:

Nine Arches Press

Unit 14, Sir Frank Whittle Business Centre,

Great Central Way, Rugby.

CV21 3XH

United Kingdom

www.ninearchespress.com

Printed in Britain by:

imprintdigital.net

Seychelles Farm,

Upton Pyne,

Exeter

EX5 5HY

www.imprintdigital.net

Bobby Parker was born in 1982 and lives in Kidderminster, England. Publications include the critically-acclaimed experimental books Ghost Town Music and Comberton, both published by The Knives Forks & Spoons Press. His poetry, artwork and photography have appeared in various magazines in print and online and he writes a poetry column for The Quietus. His reading style has been described as “Gripping, weird, relatable but alienating, emotional, totally fantastic poetry.” by Café Writers. Blue Movie is his first full collection of poems.

CONTENTS

Factory Spirit

The Opposite of Excitement

H.G. Wells

No Screaming While the Bus is in Motion

The Other Boys

Particles

Sketch

Signs of the Son

Heartbreak Delirium

Darker on the Floor

Edwin

Crossbow

3:06 a.m.

Nightlife

Ducks Staring Into You

Palpitations

Best DAD in the WORLD

Blue Movie

Jealous of Your Fighting Skills

Dummy

Car Wash

The Thing

Shut Your Mouth

Other Partners

Isobelle 6 a.m.

Knots

The Silent Man

Snow Hill

Flippers

Fuck the Moon

Poem in Which You Blame the Demon

Jellyfish

Heroin Lullaby

(or Open Letter To My Wife Upon Our Separation)

Acknowledgments

Isobelle... Emma...

Mom & Dad...

Factory Spirit

Tell your dad you are close to the beautiful poem,

living in a makeshift moon, running from evil

pictures. Don’t compare prescription drugs

to a mother’s hug or a daydream made of paper,

that will only make him angry. Let him think

you’re stoned again, staring at your dirty feet

on the grass, wondering how to make him laugh

before it’s too late for the tumbling sky

and his thin, white hair. He talks about the phantom

smell of wartime pipe-smoke on his night shift.

How he desperately longs to see the factory spirit,

to know there’s something else before

they lay him off again. He’d like to see his mother.

He taps the table with a silver lighter, squints

at clouds that look like Christmas ghosts.

A robin on your neighbour’s fence is holding

a small crucifix in its beak. Your dad sees it too,

but he doesn’t say anything. You tell him sometimes

you wish you were a ghost, so that you could make him happy.

He sighs because the world is a headache; he doesn’t know

what happened. He tells you that he drifts through the old

buildings every night, talking to the dark, until it’s time

to go home. And for some reason it reminds you of love,

I mean it seems like your dad is talking about love.

And for a few seconds you can’t remember

very much about your life, as you push your toes

under the cool soil and realise his lucky silver lighter

is broken, and that is why he isn’t smoking.

The Opposite of Excitement

When I was young I frightened

my mother while she was hanging

white sheets on the line.

Ran at her with an evil face,

clawed hands like Bela Lugosi

growling ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgh!’

She jumped, but didn’t scream

though almost burst into tears for fear

because I was such a wicked child.

There is a pain for me

thinking of the day I terrified her;

it runs along my arms and into my hands

making my fingers ache.

I think it comes from my stomach.

It is the opposite of flowers and

excitement, it is the opposite

of the day at the beach when she told me

how she met my dad and fell in love.

If I could take it back and replace it,

I would leave a son full of

birthday balloons and small candles

excellent school-reports and pictures

of stick parents on a piece of card

holding hands beneath a crayon sky.

I would tell him how short the time

is we get with mothers who smile.

And he would hang the sheets for her.

And the wind would blow through her hair.

And the wind would blow through her hair.

H.G. Wells