Dear Bob
Yes, extremely sinister! I very much like the way you bring this archaic
force into the precise details of Teeside.
I think one or two cuts as in brackets below would make it more sinister
still, but ignore me if you think I'm wrong.
BW
Christine
On November nights of mist, even when it's April,
when you walk past Blaises, you can hear it moaning -
that low thin sound that makes kissing couples pause,
look sideways, move slightly apart, (whisper *What's that,*)
and a police van clatters on - its dogs' ears bristling
as their legs tremble, they know they don't want to get out -
and if the grey moon gets released from cloud
as light slants in slow waves across the estuary
then ripples made by its body, its rising neck, lap
quietly when they reach the Tuxedo Royale
while it pauses, head high beneath the Transporter Bridge,
where it moans again as a fight breaks out near the taxis
and in the bruised words, the gleam of spat blood,
the grazed knuckles and elbows and knees,
it's heard, the low moaning of cruelty, the cursing
that's centuries old, as old as the first ones
(who told of its presence), and we hear it now
but haven't the phrases, (the magical words)
to say what it means, (of) how its sound reaches
deep in our silence, and after its shadow has passed
and all we hear is the shouting - *Fuck you, Fuck me, Fuck that* -
as we walk below streetlights, one moment clear faced,
the next in darkness, we know of its kindness,
the size of its violence, (and we know we have little to say).
Bob Cooper
brackets added
_________________________________________________________________
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Bob Cooper [SMTP:[log in to unmask]]
> Sent: 21 October 2002 22:01
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Subject: The Return Of The Teesmonster
>
> Something for C & C:
> (with words in italics *shown by asterics*)
>
>
> The Return Of The Teesmonster
>
> On November nights of mist, even when it's April,
> when you walk past Blaises, you can hear it moaning -
> that low thin sound that makes kissing couples pause,
> look sideways, move slightly apart, whisper *What's that,*
> and a police van clatters on - its dogs' ears bristling
> as their legs tremble, they know they don't want to get out -
> and if the grey moon gets released from cloud
> as light slants in slow waves across the estuary
> then ripples made by its body, its rising neck, lap
> quietly when they reach the Tuxedo Royale
> while it pauses, head high beneath the Transporter Bridge,
> where it moans again as a fight breaks out near the taxis
> and in the bruised words, the gleam of spat blood,
> the grazed knuckles and elbows and knees,
> it's heard, the low moaning of cruelty, the cursing
> that's centuries old, as old as the first ones
> who told of its presence, and we hear it now
> but haven't the phrases, the magical words
> to say what it means, of how its sound reaches
> deep in our silence, and after it's shadow has passed
> and all we hear is the shouting - *Fuck you, Fuck me, Fuck that* -
> as we walk below streetlights, one moment clear faced,
> the next in darkness, we know of its kindness,
> the size of its violence, and we know we have little to say.
>
>
> Bob Cooper
>
>
> _________________________________________________________________
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