Here, now
eight pairs - sixteen feet;
black and red and green, beige.
Some of the soles are flat on the floor,
some of the uppers are nodding
or turn slow circles.
There! Ten toes poking their nose
and most of the soles are flat on the floor
but some are waving.
‘What you doing? Eh?
What you need?’
‘Er Money! Sex. Ah Stuff!’
‘What else you need?
‘A drink, a talk,
to boss, fight, swear, win, sloth,
to rule, to dig, to leap,
in fame and fashion, debt and hope.’
‘Thanks very much.
I say more:
Friends, Food,
Stories, Games,
Music, Smiles.
Thanks very much?!’
Out come words - tiny spurts - with a spirit, tumbling,
sliding into the tall Spring air; rippling the Rubicon
of normal people, clumsy keys
hammering at a door that’s locked
- will we ever hear and feel a passion deep inside?
Shall we play? Shall we cry? Shall we arise and sing aloud
words that line-dance into laughter:
clear your throat and jump the escalator.
Andrew’s words are happy ever after:
ever after the dancing laughter after.
A childlike life will get you all the fun;
when to rest and when to jump and play;
what’s in a wrestle, settle, dance or run,
what makes a small adventure every day.
Of how he talked, ate, mullocked, slept at night,
worn out, stayed superconscious in the eyes,
no dusty schoolbooks, more a dancing light;
his pain was shadow for the rest of us
but now’s a time when children leave, vamoose,
a moment when we say goodbye, ta-ra,
and when we stare towards the vanishing point
all hearts are aching, every head is faint.
He glances round and says ‘merci’, ‘au revoir’
and quickly turns his back, you’re no more use.
The note he makes vibrates away;
an eager dance, transforming
ear-drums and thin air.
The composer wrote down a dot
but hear – don’t reckon – leap to art.
This note is a fine one, invites
your flesh to action through the veins
when body and voice,
instinct, sense, come out and pounce.
A note arrives, molecules dance.
