Help Me Write A Poem!
September 26, 2008
Here’s the deal: I’m working on a poem, “In the Rock Hall,” the inspiration being a visit I made, a couple of years ago, to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in the Land of Cleves, Ohio. The poem is divided into two parts, the first being my impressions, the second being my thoughts about what artifacts or relics should be in the Rock Hall. I want you guys out there to suggest things, too, and when I get enough, well, we shall published and be damned!
Here’s the poem to date:
In The Rock Hall
Of course you must go!
When next in Cleveland, you must
Visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
Which sits on the shores of Lake Erie
(Itself a monument to ancientness.)
Of course you must go!
You will be disappointed.
There are clothes,
Vestments and albs worn by the luminous,
But they seem to have been laundered
Many, many times.
Not never, which is what you would expect.
And the clothes are so small.
(You have become tremendous.
You own a belly that drapes over a golden belt buckle
And hides it from view
Even though the buckle is so enormous
That it would seem to have been bestowed by some
Transgalactic wrestling league?
(But you do not worry, of late, about your appearance.
You squeeze your shoulders into a denim jacket
That you have had for years,
At least, for the years that meant anything,
The years that felt anything,
The years that you keep in your back pocket
Along with the condom of optimism.
There is no chance of fastening the fastens,
But that?s all right, the jacket
Never could withstand even the weakest
Of Elements.
(Your hair is gone, or
Streaked like a crazy lady?s cheek.
Your hair has become absolutely
Unmanageable.)
These clothes on display,
They are so small and, now,
You so large,
you would have trouble
Forcing your fist into them and
Working them like handpuppets.
But you must go!
Because at the end of the day
You will stumble outside
Blinded by tears, and you will
Fall into Lake Erie
(Itself a monument to ancientness)
And you will,
Finally,
Mourn your youth.
2)
Here are some things that should be on display:
Elvis?s sneer (not the he used on-stage, the one that crimped his mouth when Colonel Parker suggested he try on the suit in the closet)
Jerry Lee Lewis?s hymnal.
Robert Johnson?s lost nickel (for he telephoned his manager, at least, the white man who was exploiting him, and said, ?There?s a lady here wants fifty cents, and I lacks a nickel.?)
Her Boy Lollipop.
The Land of a Thousand Dances. I?ve calculated that if we confine ourselves to popular dance steps of the 20th and 21st century?the Lindy Hop, the Pony, the?we are currently stalled at number 999. What grand luck! So there should be an exhibit, a room where people enter and dance and someone will finally do something brand-fucking-new and the Land of a Thousand Dances will all of a sudden appear in atlases. Wilson Pickett may even come back to life, we can only hope.
The dildo that Jimi Hendrix used when he was too fucked up to fuck.
Neil Young?s blue ears and fingertips, the result of venturing outside in Winnipeg, Manitoba, wearing only a too-small denim jacket as protection against the Elements.
The scream that came out of the mouth of Brenda Boychuk, age 13, of Don Mills, Ontario,when Paul McCartney shook his hair in Toronto?s Maple Leaf Gardens.
The best move I ever made,
Which was made in front of a mirror?
I was the same age as Brenda Boychuck, indeed,
It was Brenda I was possessed by,
The sight of a bra strap escaping from a
Cream coloured sweater
Resulting in what our
Gym and Health teacher Mr. Luik
Called ?penile engorgement,?
But?where was I going with this??
I once draped my Zenon guitar
Over my shoulder and struck an
E chord with such engorged insouciance
That Brenda Boychuck would have
a)??? forgotten about Paul McCartney forever
b)??? allowed me to do whatever sex was
Okay? never mind.
I?m going out now for a few drinks.
Wearing my denim jacket
Even though it is too small and unable to
Withstand any of the Elements.
—————————————
Dr. Landy’s prescription pad with whatever drug made Brian and Ozzy walk and talk the way they do. (Helen Musclow)
(copyright 2007, Paul Quarrington)
——————————–
So… any suggestions? Post them here or send them to paul@paul.quarrington.org. Together, who knows, we may win the Griffin Prize!!
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Dr. Landy’s prescription pad with whatever drug made Brian and Ozzy walk and talk the way they do.
It’s been quiet here at work, so my friend Marc and I put our heads together to find new suggestions for you. We have one acceptable one so far:
The 3 pennies I taped to my tone arm
So the record player wouldn’t skip
From the massively cool “Baba O’Reilly”
To the merely OK “Bargain”
On Side One
Of my copy of Who’s Next
All the suicide notes crafted from The Smiths lyrics.
The eleventh grade slow dance with your hardes
crush to Stairway to Heaven. Glorious Noise.
What sense does a silent rock museum make?
A tide pool of sweat and one thousand broken
televisions thrown from hotel windows. Jim Morrison’s
empty bottles, Janis’s empty bed in the Chelsea,
gimme the floorboards of CBGB’s, all guts and grime.
Where’s the roar and the riot? Nights spent
grinding to the Stones. Bowie’s one green eye.
Gimme danger, little stranger, oh Iggy’s sinew
Debbie Harry’s lips, Lou Reed’s flat blank stare.
A shrine for Joe Strummer (raise your pint glass
may he forever get down, Moses.) Show me
the hours spent waiting in line, the hot
press of the crowd, display the distance
from the nosebleeds to the front of the stage.
Spectacle of sex, where’s the exhibit
for the chord that sends me back to the
edge of seventeen?
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