Trashed Organ is a Newcastle based literature, music and events collective which seeks to bring 'gutter poetics' to the masses. The Organ Grinders have recently branched out into zine publication. The first issue 'Music'
was published in early 2011 and the very first poem in the collection is one of mine! So that's nice.
I sent in two poems for consideration, and I actually prefer the one that they didn't publish. Both submissions are below, see what you think...
Twirling a metaphorical
moustache, the squeezebox
bellows. An instrumental gentleman,
wheezing melodies through
pleated cloth. Folklore spills
from keys like history tamed
in minims. An asthmatic zephyr,
he sings The Suburbs to sleep.
The screech of the accordion;
a lacklustre, discordant hum,
eerie as the beating drum,
as final as the setting sun.
The thread of time is finely-spun,
and all round the buskers come
to hear the prophecy of one
who bellows that the race is run –
'The end is nigh! The horsemen come!'
'Repent! Recant! What have you done?'
The sands of chance through glass have run,
and still the music carries on.
The keys are worked by fingers numb,
a warning played with blackened thumbs
'Time is short, we have but none.'
'Are you proud of what you've done?'
And still the music carries on,
pressed to your chest like a loaded gun.
It rises through the panicked throng.
That lacklustre, discordant hum,
inducing dread in all who come.
As eerie as the beating drum.
Pray for release and find ye none,
the rhythm they cannot outrun.
The busker taps a hoof cloven
In time with the accordion.