iBlog: While on the Dance - by Robert Henry Jackman


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Monday, December 10, 2007

While on the Dance - by Robert Henry Jackman

Oh, what is this strange sight before me?

This witching-hour economy… this carnival of debauchery…

Where Primark queens bellow greetings from limousines,

Swigging back cheap champagne – the stuff that tastes faintly Listerine,

And across the road, hunger-stricken drunks lunch on imitation fried chicken,

Spewing out their life story to anyone who’ll listen,

While drunken soulmates try swapping numbers, but inevitably stumble – oh, it can be quiet a scene,

Cos swapping thirteen digits can be such a bitch after you’ve downed 24 WKDs…

And at the cash machines, silly students make flippant, triple-figure withdrawals,

Not thinking for a moment, about their student loan, and how they’ll explain to mummy that they spent it all,

What is this strange place where accidental eye contact is received as aggression?

And where bellowing out across a crowded road passes as healthy conversation?…

Oh, what is this strange place before me?

This battle against sobriety… this riotous assembly…

Where inside the clubs, bodies bob to the libidinous throb of Fiddy… Akon… P. Diddy and ‘Snoop Dogg’

Where nervous sort stand on the edge of the floor, and potter with indecision,

Watching the girl next door, as she bumps and grinds, like a bad pole-dancing audition…

At every bar queue sweaty mobs reaching out for fluorescent alcopops,

Where trendy types prefer to overdose on diet-friendly, low-sugar Bacardi Breezers,

Strutting across the dancefloor like a Paralympic Night Fever,

Where size-10 barmaids fight off sleazy propositions,

From Norwich Union types who’ve drowned their inhibitions,

Where smokers and cokeheads congregate behind locked toilet cubicles,

Sharing their love for the devils’ dandruff…. *snort*…yeah, it’s beautiful,

The chaos! The carnage! The pandemonium! The palava!

Prince of Wales road – where your night could end in a fight – or projectile vomit disaster,

Imagine a crowded Wetherespoons… now imagine it in Gava,

Imagine what the First World War would’ve been like if everyone was plastered,

This… is binge Britain.

Welcome… to binge Britain,

This is what the Daily Mail write editorials about,

This is what the Arctic Monkeys tell stories about,

It’s a place where you drink just to forget the sights you’ve seen,

You drink to forget it all – the slags, the lads and the terrible dance routines…

And when I wake my brain pulses with pain,

I whisper promises to myself never to do it again,

I lay there… fantasizing about a glass of icy water,

Not sure whether this is a hangover… or post-traumatic stress disorder.

If you liked this beautifully pretentious poetry from a 21 year old man of the world critic without a degree, he's reciting thusly:


  • At 12:45 PM, Blogger Timothy V Reeves said…

    ...and your analysis???

  • At 6:59 PM, Blogger Ben F. Foster Esq. (c) said…

    good. Speaking of which I had to reboot our gay lap-top today and was flicking through some old VI form backup CDs I made and came across a poem I writ about proclaimers. I used to be so articulatae:

    I think it's called `poem thang` by the title of the document

    What do I need?

    More fucking perfectuating idioms?
    Words of conviction without
    The balls to show their true colours?
    Spineless like the rest...
    Leaders who rule
    and Pasters who slope their shoulders
    down & down
    untill the needs reach their own origin -
    only this time...


    What do I need?

    Time to grow or seed to sow?
    Or the mere strength to get through the here & now?
    Do I need to see the light at the end of the tunnel
    Or the blinding perfection of God in my heart now?

    Then do not mock me with your patronising cliches
    For I would that you'd live a day in my world
    & love the faces who burned it from under your feet.
    To touch the hands of betrayal with yours of
    broken, forgotten perfection -
    Which then go on to collect the scattered broken pieces of heart
    From this life...
    Cast no stone untill you find the last piece
    Then place it back together with no memories:
    or precurser to its demise

    And sit back in your gold faithed palaces
    And stare down on this pauper below
    Flinging out your rubbish
    And expecting gratitude
    For the scraps of your stonely hubris.

    And keep those scraps flying -
    Watching me dance your mock prayers away
    Scurrying in the mud - filthying my hands searching, hunting
    for the scraps of heart scattered so many years ago

    And let us unite in praying that Christ will come to aid
    That I would one day be like you -
    That I would have the insummountable privelege
    Of telling the lowly their faults
    And remind the destitute the street is their only throne.
    While all the while, thanking God for my silver car;
    golden house & platinum words of religion.

    Again I say, do not mock me!
    This faith is real....
    This faith need not be pampered by sunday school stories
    Or would it need the volumes of CDs,
    or does it need to be triggered by mass hysteria
    before the passion ebbs with the night

    This faith is the God inspired, dirty, real life...
    So what if I don't conform to your pathetic excuse for a Christain
    Speak to me when the church grows thin, the music unfashionable
    the prayers turn to cliches and the minions of adoring paupers
    find their true calling by real faith

    Friend, this faith needs no superphelous materialism
    It needs not man to inspire it;
    Mere God induced relationship.
    Stop looking to me as if my imperfections are your ticket above me
    (untill the day I proclaim myself to be perfect).
    But look deeper & you will see:

    A faith which does not let go
    A faith which does not comprimise the Word
    But looks to God as the Master
    A faith which time after time says with bold conviction
    ``Lord, in my times of trial & rejection:
    Then into the world would proclaim that message
    Without fear or hesitation.

    I do not doubt your faith
    But judge me not on my failings,
    for my life is for faith
    more than perfection.
    I seek God more than anything
    And for Him, I know this is enough

    So look down if you must
    As I dither & hesitate
    As I struggle & flounder while trying to do His will
    Watch from your castle as I attmept to gather this broken heart
    From the gutter & pass to me, by all means your words of perfection

    While I just maintain this state of a brokean heart,
    furtivly searching for itself
    In a world where the only Christianity is conviction from above

  • At 10:23 AM, Blogger Timothy V Reeves said…

    I think that say that poets do best when their roots are tortured. So perhaps you need to find a fellowship that does torture, and you might get back on form. (It goes with out saying that proclaimers must have been torture)


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