Tag Archives: popular culture

Synopsis for a Novel

I read a book once,

one with a happy ending

the denouement didn’t suit my mood

I have to admit;

the good guy won out in the end

and got the gal,

justice was served,

the bad guys got their just desserts;

the sun presumably rose again

the following morning after the story ended,

over that small town in the middle of nowhere USA;

It’s always a small town,

the crooked politician, corrupt cop,

local businessman with too many secrets to conceal.

and some innocent gets in their way

by chance or accident,

fate really doesn’t mind which,

and then up pops the reluctant hero;

the saviour of the day,

honour, virtue and fair play;

and he is pretty much always

reluctant, hesitant, self-effacing

pushed to the limit

before he invariably acts,

displaying the customary tropes of being

a tad graphic, a touch sadistic and having a

a flair for the unexpected as he dispatches

each of the bad hombres in turn;

And so he wins in the end,

gets the gal and the kudos,

and most important of all,

the chance to do it all again

in the sequel.

Alien Nation : Alienation

We went into the Valley of Elah

looking for victory and reasons to carry on ,

when we got there those reasons had gone ;

they’d quietly slipped away

leaving us with nothing more to say ;

when we got back

we didn’t recognise ourselves ,

we looked at our faces in the mirror

that only showed someone else ;

all our words too had their meaning changed

for something that we couldn’t understand ,

and we who were born here

became strangers in our own land .

Dali Exhibition:Bruges

” Quick !”,
” The camera !”
aim,
picture;
before the buildings all
up skirts and run away;
tourists huddled in gloomy
noonday shadows of The Belfort.
Nearby they’re exhibiting Dali,
though I can’t quite determine
its precise geographic location,
the blind waffle-vendor tells me,
indirectly that Dali has been
relocated to a nearby aubergine;
” You’d scarcely believe it had sufficient
room to house all of Dali’s effulgent textuality”
at that the midnight grinning tabby-cat
pronounced itself satisfied with its
idiomatic translation of the
sightless vendor’s account;
” unlock the secret aubergine portal and
you’ll never need to approach any lemon again,
citrussy traitors the lot of them!”
hectored the petty feline demagogue
in the spirit of an alfresco symposium;
I antithetically posited that not all
lemons were conspiratorial and was,
” I tawt I taw a puddy-tat” aware
that Belfries emphasised a deep human
urge for freedom and democracy ?
disquieted in that Sylvesterine manner
that all Cats display he reiterated
that Dali extricated the snot
from his own nose,flicked it at
the world and the critics said,
that it was art,truth and beauty;
” yeah,but what about all those conspiratorial Lemons?”
we concurred, the Feline and I.

A Quiet Place

Quiet as sunlight on a window pane

quiet as a snowdrop falling in winter,

quiet now the Earth stands

the Earth stands still;

all our years have passed us by

and are gone into the abyss of nostalgia;

Every waking moment is a baited trap,

should your grasp loosen,

should your grip fail,

should your foot slip;

Only silence offers hope,

and hope causes the heart to beat louder;

hush now,

they’re listening..

Once Upon A Time in The West

When that wind roars out of the South,
the one called the “Zephyr”,
it tears right through El Paso
with raw heat and anger;

Blasting like buckshot
in saloon bar brawls,
it stampedes droves of tumbleweed
herding it like cattle;

Zephyrs sweep away everything,
except memories and their re-telling
that clatter,that chatter across
strung out continental wires;

Informing city readers a day later
of some gunfight someplace so far away,
that the retelling of it
enobles the mythical participants;

three cadavers, jackets buttoned
silver coins placed over their eyes,
lined-up one,two,three
for the Wm.H.Walker Camera;

The faces of Pat Garrett and William H. Bonney
absent from that white and black portrait,
they got paid their double gold eagles
and rode off.

( A previous version was posted 21/6/2011 )

The Big Sleep

A snap-brim hat caught
in the bar-room mirror,
a trenchcoat Theseus is
lost in midnight labyrinths
and their fragrances of promise;
Our hero is pearl-diving
with wisecracks for switchblades,
cutting open evenings and cutting
open dames’ hearts like oysters.

Out on the sidewalk gatts boom
like battlefield Howitzers,their
hollowpoint shells looking for shortcuts,
a trenchcoat and tux soak up the
moisture after getting rained on
by two Forty-Fours.

The Packard 8 roars back
into the panther lair of the
night,sirens and crazy red ‘n’blue
fairground lights come to take
some cold meat back to
where only dreaming heroes sleep.

A struck match caught in the
gleaming ornate bar-room mirror
Our hero is playing the Shamus
with dames wreathed in fancy
smoke rings,they’re offering him
intricate labyrinths to be got into
and out of, with a smile,
just like Ariadne’s thread.

Casablanca Blank

It is always Gare de Lyon

and the last train out

of a city facing ruin;

It will always be

“As time goes by..”

and by,

and bye-bye..

The trenchcoat and hat

drenched by the long rain

of waiting and waiting,

of being Rick Blaine

a man with too much valour

in his heart being caught out,

not by the Men in Grey

who only want his life,

but by you,Ilse,who should’ve

wanted his heart and that stood

alone and waiting in the long rain

on the crowded platform

heaving with hearts pounding

in the communal solitude

of a time and a chance

left twisting,slowly,slowly,

in mirrors and labyrinths

where memories lose themselves

and are lost and found,

waiting;

always at Gare de Lyon,

on fateful afternoons

where time never goes by.

Casablanca Blank – enjoy & share!!

Posted by Louis Kasatkin on Wednesday, 4 October 2017

Flicks

Stumbling along wet evening streets

glancing at the jigsaw faces

from years ago

torn and flapping,

trying to recall who they were

their names erased by years of exile

from the beams of projectors

piercing the spiralling smoke

with their monochrome magic

engraving spendthrift lives

with icons of fulfilment,

momentarily tethered to

hearts by a spoken word,

a melody hummed,

dah-dee-dah-dee-dah-dum,

while we watched their ghosts

glide across the screen like

seagulls into the fleeting clouds,

where they were lost

to the naked eye.

Style..

Hepcats
over at Maxi’s
next door to the Flamingo,
friday nite cool;
Coltrane on his Blue Train,
Philly Joe’s drums hustlin’
for space and time
tryin’ to fill a vacuum
that Coltrane never leaves;
piercing gliding whetted
Coltrane’s sax cuttin’ the joint
& cuttin’ the nite into ribbons
of color,strands of splendor
intoxicating innuendo for
Hepcats their mint juleps
colder hemp harder
dirtier like primordial notation
drivin’ that Blue Train along
outbound bound beyond
all talk all senses
over at Maxi’s
next door to the Flamingo
friday nite cool.

footnote on ” Hepcat “.
A stylish or fashionable person, especially in the sphere of jazz or popular music:

Rock Obit.

Your chords struck

like summer lightning,

cool,charismatic,

lost in the ephemeral

geography of Route 66

jamming with Waters,Hendrix and Page

in unrecorded sessions,

unannounced out of town gigs,

no Sam Phillips and

Union Avenue for you,

just the frisson of

word of mouth and late

night unattended studios;

Your fledgling promise

of a could’ve,should’ve future

eclipsed by androgynous pin-ups

and their Top 40 golden disc,

that got taken away from you

in a drunken early morning call you made,

“you let them steal my song,you..”

that ensured you were never heard;

Years later, discarded

recordings belatedly retrieved

from forgotten storerooms,

piqued public curiosity,

“whatever happened to…”

2 a.m. rundown motel lobby,

someplace south of Phoenix,

a late night deal,

a drunken brawl,

a passing Sheriff

who thought he saw

you reaching for…

chords that struck

like summer lightning.