A Small Trip Down South In The Scorched Summer Of Seventy Seven
by Dee Sunshine
Monday, July 14, 2003
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Dawn giving off its supernatural glow/ east of Wolverhampton/ stars twinkling off to sleep/ wee fairy lights switching off into neon nowhere
A SMALL TRIP DOWN SOUTH:
IN THE SCORCHED SUMMER
OF SEVENTY SEVEN.
The blue blue bus is waiting for us/ wing singing American dream cream/ a rainbow edged warrior scream/ Jim Morrison, the lizard king/ another motherís son/ anyone/ just anyone/ any which way/ shaman baying to the moon/ emptying out his rucksack on the long road south/ laughing a madcap laugh, as his house burns to the ground.
Tunnel down deep into mammary earth/ bowel of moistness/ uprooting child within/ child without/ and shout out/ the blue bus/ awaiting the opening of the gates/ swing swung rusted open/ motherwide smile/ ovary smile/ a house of sorrow/ house of shame/ dead father/ fucked mother/ digging down deep/ ruby fields, rosy folds and sour sweet love-me-more, love-me-more sweat/ house of lovehate/ church of innocents/ inner sense/ incense smouldering damn fire and hell nation/ smell of sour musk/ feral firecat/ crawling along the hard shoulder/ the blue bus turning, turning, turning over/ burning/ flesh melting/ pouring from the raw bone/ here, broken along the hard shoulder/ crawling away from the wreckage/ a fistful of dreams/ dreams of waking/ dreams of snakes/ ride, ride, ride, ride the kingsnake/ his skin is gold, gold as burning highways.
First rule on the road to heaven: board the bus, ride the snake/ the snake is long/ his song endless/ seven friendless hours of tarmac moon/ city linking/ the lunacy of too much thinking/ and home is nothing/ nothing but for the leaving/ home is seven hours of hell to heaven/ the highway south/ the low road/ and neíer will I see this city mair/ never return/ rather to burn in the sulphur and hellfire of London town/ the gold paved muttering streets/ eternal gap sites of dereliction/ the erudite diction of deliciously fingered degradation/ poet of cunnilingus cuneiform/ the bohemian uniform of contempt and boredom/ Monsieur Rimbaud, mon frŤre, mon ťsprit/ leaving behind the province of inertia/ the sinking sludgy byways/ opening unswung gates/ striding anarchic down Hammersmith Broadway/ swinging through the nirvana of Notting Hill/ a narcotic necrophiliac/ a mythic young burning visionary/ here, these magic mushroom melting windows and we are flying the halcyon nest of fishing queens/ a thousand miles above the sleeping skyline/ beyond the borderhills, the ghosts of rivers whispering/ sweet Clyde, by Abington I sat myself down and wept/ laughing in my leaving/ you and me, Jimmy, tripping in reveries of could-have-beens/ will-fucking-well-become/ emotional in hallucinogenic rush/ the sign speaking polyglot welcomes/ a land of angels/ land of angles/ those sexy saxons/ sultry sassenachs/ and that black kohl eyed punkette staring moodily out the disintegrating window/ sulphate girl/ and us fireflying down burning tarmac/ cars smiling sinister minister smiles/ headlamps lapping up our youngboy flesh/ twisted metal joy-riding the back of the kingsnake/ black and gold/ weaving thruí burnt up red brick hick towns/ writhing sexual now, the snake/ dark poetry in pockets/ dreams of dreams/ two fucked, wrecked poets/ would-be heroes/ must-be-martyrs to the hellfire within/ that was me and Jimmy, in the scorched summer of seventy seven.
Me and Jimmy in the scorched summer of seventy seven/ giggling thruí Charnock Richard services/ fat wobbling auld women/ lard swans with primadonna handbags/ gravel voices/ ay up ducks/ two spiky punks on magic mushies/ tripping thru delirious junk food pleasure domes/ coffee frothing clouds of infinity/ blowing out lines of amphetamine poetry/ here a factory of fire/ there a field of broken glass/ here a crowd of broken souls/ there a clockwork jerkoff fantasy.
Rolling raucous onto the blue blue bus/ tinny sounds of squelched bus stereo/ this is the end, my beautiful friend/ wishing it was the fucking end/ restless as bag of ferrets/ squirming in sticky seats/ swimming with young blood hormones/ itchy for metropolitan paradise/ the six in the morning yawning empty bellied arrival in post-narcotic knife lit city, with nowhere to stay but the address of a squat from a friend of a friend/ with rucksacks and folders of poetry and big shiny dreamsÖ
And then the clouds clear and the near full moon screams rainbow moonbow starsparks into tripped out retinas/ will you fucking look at that?/ giggling into empty night/ tut tut women going down to suburban friends glare sleep deprived/ tut tut anger cast in cigarette smoke/ black spirals/ and sucking down righteousness/ good hard working protestants/ and you and me, Jimmy, with our dole cards flashing unemployed laughter into their tax bill faces/ ha ha/ ha fucking ha/ merrily merrily merrily merrily/ life was a fucking dream/ in the scorched summer of seventy seven/ with the moon weaving aftershocks of the whitest white youíve never seen/ god inside her ghostly belly/ sweet, beautiful mother moon/ pair of us laughing and crying/ chucking down a few more mushies for the fuck of it/ ha fucking ha/ lifeís just a pearly pink oyster/ and I swear to fuck Iím going to just sit down beside that wee punk lassie and give her a fistful of mushies/ a fist full of dreams/ me and Jimmy are poets, Iíll tell her, fucking bohos of the first fucking order/ and I can feel these mushies coming on/ coming up/ and Iím out the window, way over the horizon/ warm summer wind on my naked belly/ here, my tattoo blowing dragonwheels in the breeze/ down the aisle with my fuck-the-queen t-shirt and giving black kohl eyes the cheeky smile/ head coming apart/ brains dribbling out my ears.
And Iím pissing rainbows into the shaking pan/ Morrison screaming: driver where you taking us?/ then puking up/ a million mushrooms following rainbow piss into the blue blue disinfected nowhere/ head expanding and contracting to amyl nitrate heartbeat/ throb of hellfire/ oh god/ oh fuck/ oh no/ vomit bits down t-shirt and chin/ smell of ammonia and sulphur/ heavenly hell/ body disintegrating into sick bits/ curling up round cold pale blue plastic stem of toilet flower/ and donít forget to fucking flush/ cold protestant bastards giving me the tut tut evil fucking eye when I finally get it together/ and Jimmy laughing his arse off/ ha fucking ha/ ha ha haÖ
Time ticking on and off/ LCD blinking of bastard cuntface clock/ speeding up and slowing down to a stop/ then dawn giving off its supernatural glow/ east of Wolverhampton/ stars twinkling off to sleep/ wee fairy lights switching off into neon nowhere/ and the punk girl snoring into her mohair jumperÖ
And Iím asking jimmy if he ever wanted to fuck his mother/ raving now/ the lizard king infecting my dead head/ your mother, maybe, says Jimmy/ and thatís the end of that one/ ma blonde bimbette mammy with her big milky tits/ and Iím tripping over the edge into serious landmine country/ the angle terre of Freud fuck ups/ staring out the snoring punk girl/ boring into her dreams with razor eyes/ this is just a trip/ this is just a trip/ father, I want to kill you/ mother, I want to bluueeaaaaaaaagh/ Morrison twisting poison endless scream into my tinny ears/ sun screwing yellow orange red into my guts/ and I just want to fucking sleep/ Jimmy breathing nicotine into my fucked up air/ laughing to himself/ soft as a crone whisper, into empty empty space/ and then Iím just sinking into thoughtless sadness/ coming down as weíre coming into London overspilt conurbation/ concrete vacancies/ and Iím just totally fried/ hatelove pumping thru muscle, blood, bone, brain/ the blue bus twisting snake streaks thru sleeping streets/ dazzle of red gold green traffic lights on dew wet gold paved streets.
Ambling out of Victoria station at quarter to six in the wrecked fucked drizzling morning/ shivering in unslept bones/ coming down/ coming down/ with a fist full of dead flowers/ wandering aimless round friendless Pimlico/ along the sludgy Thames Embankment/ up past the houses of parliament to Trafalgar Square/ sitting down by Nelsonís column, broken glass in our bones/ the sun breaking through cloud/ Godís fingers reaching down and touching us/ with our rucksacks and our folders of poems/ there we were, at last, in delirious London town/ way beyond the constraining provinces of blurred Alba/ two heroes, two poets, two losers/ beautiful and innocent/ fucked up and burned out/ in the scorched summer of seventy seven.