Miscellany

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May 11, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: There Aren’t Enough Batteries Left To Power This World

A little man climbs a big ladder to
change the batteries in the week. You’ll
notice yourself – or someone
around you – feeling particularly flat
on a Sunday, usually about 3 or 4pm.
This is exactly when the batteries
are changed. The little man does
all he can to make it swift, puts
the band-aid on what’s left
of the weekend, gets the green light
full charging for the next week
on the treadmill. And if this sounds
a little bit strange it’s not. And if it
sounds a tiny bit depressing the real news
is really fucking depressing. Like way more
than this. And we all thought the batteries
themselves were rechargeable, but I think we
know now that they’re not. And that we
borrowed a lot of money from all sorts
of places to stockpile the meager amount
that sits on a shelf in a cloud, way up high
though the ladder cannot reach past it
to get anywhere near the stakes.

Archive

May 10, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: Dose

I’ve never understood all this chat about
Wellington’s weather; I moved here over
a quarter of a century ago and arrived

in a car with a roof, to live in a series of flats
and houses, each time with a roof; almost
didn’t need to check – but did so instinctively.

The way I’ve always seen it – and heard it
(and felt it): There are two choices when
it comes to Wellington’s weather. You either

step out and get beaten about the head by it,
or you’re pleasantly surprised. The correct
doses of either have been good for the soul.

Archive

May 9, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: Alone In Public

Something about sitting
at a beer-soaked table
still gets me observing

the world in a particular
way. Haven’t had a drink
in over a year, doubt I will

again (though never say never).
In the bar, with my pen and paper
and whatever is around me;

that’s always been one of my
favourite places to be – to be
totally alone and never feel like it

Archive

May 9, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: I Was There Mate, Gladstone, 1982

I was there mate, at the Gladstone, 1982
It was better than anything you ever saw,
and most things you’ve gone on to do.

I can tell you that right now. For free.
We were up front and the microphone
hit me in the face and when I tasted

the sweat of the singer it went down like
the coldest beer, a cup of actual freedom.
Another four hours and I’d be starting

my shift. But who gives an actual shit
when you’re there in that world – with that
music (the best) and maybe your girl, or

you’d give it a go – that’s for fucking sure.
And so what that you’ve seen all the best bands –
I saw most of them first and some of the ones

you reckon are great are shit now mate. But I
saw them when they had potential. Yeah, that’s
what it was. Potential. I started off with almost

nothing, you know. And I like to think I’ve got
most of it left. And I’m building up
a library of all the things I’ve seen and done.

And that is my victory. And you shouldn’t
take people’s victories from them. You can
be any sort of cunt you like – but don’t

take away the gigs that I earned and
the things I learned from getting in early on
both the gate and the drink. Your generation

is the one that takes everything for granted,
whereas we were the last to feel like
we actually worked hard.

Two kinds of people mate – two kinds:
hard workers, and those hardly working at all.
And no one worked harder than the guy up front

at the Gladstone in 1982. In the centre of it all,
up against the barrier – in more ways than one.
A front man – of sorts. Waiting in the reserves.

Every word on his lips, tongue ready to sub in –
every song in his heart, every truth he ever knew
was right there on that day. And you’re gonna be

the one to try to take it away? Nah, get fucked mate.
You had to be there. And you weren’t. You never
were – but I was there man. I was bloody there.

Gladstone. 1982. And some nights I’m still there.
And that’s always gonna be your problem eh.
And it’s just the difference between us.

Archive

May 8, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: The People Working In Theatre Only Get Mondays To Themselves

Every night on the stage for the duration
of the season, with just one day off
for the good behaviour; most of the time
they’ll never flub a line, or drop a plate or
cup or fuck things up and I am probably
a bad person for wishing they might. I
redeem myself though, by being pleased
they never do.

What happens on Mondays in the theatre?
What happens at home for the actors
and crew? All the washing and ironing,
the dusting and polishing – or just a big
fucking sleep?

When I am ever out more than two nights
a week (and that happens much less often
than it used to) I think about the people
in theatre. Special people doing
all that great work, living on the smell
of one day off each week.

Archive

May 6, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: Steely

they play Steely Dan during the break, and it straight away
takes me all the way back to any time in my house
when I am not taking a break – that’s when I play Steely Dan

which I like almost as much as I like telling people
that I love Steely Dan.  I love when people tell me that
they don’t. Those cloven-hooved heathen fucks!

Archive

May 5, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: Mum Made The Milos

Friday night watching Taxi, waiting
for the fish ‘n’ chips – the relief

after Thursday, scared shitless with
Ripley’s Believe It Or Not (and mostly

just because of Jack Palance’s voice).
Wednesday was Fair Go, and we gave it

exactly that. Because on Tuesdays there
was Night Court and Cheers and if

Monday wasn’t offering much that was okay,
because I’d spent the whole weekend watching

the same episode of The Young Ones over
and again. So long as the timer on the VCR

had been set right. That was dad’s job.
Mum made the milos, baked lovely treats.

Archive

May 4, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: Pwned In The U.S.A.

Bruce Springsteen’s Born In The U.S.A was
one of my first tapes – and I loved it so much
and everyone else in the family hated it.

I had no frame of reference beyond Bruce
the big pop star. It never made much
sense to have him doing stadiums, competing

with Lionel, Madonna, MJ and Prince –
but that’s where his manufactured brand
of American Earnestness landed him in the mid-80s.

Grimacing as the sweat ran down his neck,
he turned his blue collar to fake hard against the
wind. I reckon Bob Seger, who’d been running

against it twice as hard, was calm not to go all Tonya
Harding on the boss. James Brown paid the cost to
be the boss, Bruce just told us all he’d done the work.

Archive

May 3, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: I Survived Y2K

My CV is a disaster, but my ideas alone
have kept me in regular unemployment.

I was a hard worker once. But it was
really only the one time.

Back in the late 90s, I checked out. It’s
been my main job ever since trying to check back in.

I can’t even blame the millennium. I never got
my free t-shirt saying I survived it.

Probably for the best. I’d only end up wearing it
to my next  interview.

Archive

May 2, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: Pics Or It Never Happened

in the dream
I opened

a very old
copy of Shakespeare –

Collected Works,
and in the middle

of the book, smashed
within the pages

was a duck. Squashed
thin, like roadkill.

I let it slide from
the book to the footpath

and photographed it.
I watched for a bit,

worried about leaving
it there, sure it was

dead – of course. But
then it started to rebuild

itself, puffing
back up into 3D.

And then it winked at
me – and flew off.

A strange dream
to have. I woke up

and scrolled my
phone, no photos.

Archive

May 1, 2021 by Simon Sweetman

Poem: Depression

anger without effort
enthusiasm calls in sick
a new day is just extra anxiety
today, the slowest of crawls
until tomorrow, which likely cannot help

I know you care, but you thinking I don’t
means you can’t help
at least as much as you think
I can’t be helped

the blanket might feel heavy
but there’s something safe
about this home

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