killing time

they ask me what im 

doing these days

since you left

im killing time

just killing time

but time wont die

hard as I try

im killing time but

it just wont die

© Rebecca Rennie 2006

About Time

don’t you think it’s about time

you got a little angry?

those sweet nothings you lay on

have done their dash dont you think?

don’t you think its about time

you gave up on the soft angle

about time you

had a drink?

don’t you think its about time

you packed a bit of grit into your

dulcet comebacks

they really don’t stick

the jazz in you has lost its irony

you’re smiling through the bluest tunes

you green Christmas tree you

the lights out one year to the next

don’t you think its about time

you took that dress off

and got downright

mean?

you don’t move anyone anymore

don’t know that you ever did

I imagine its always been

like this with you

before your voice cracked

I suspect you could have

got down and dirty but

you’ve cleaned up your act

don’t you think it’s about time

you got angry about it all?

© Rennie 2005 

Le Salon

Vibrating her body with your bloodied-sore fingers

she is toned and cool and dances sideways

indifferently french swivelling on her pivot

that oak cavity, empty belly-full of harmonious grit.

You drag her home, she squeaks on her wheels, and you,

you heart-creaking soak, splashy with self-pitying demons;

all the way to Orleans you go.

who carries who? one has to ask –

your red sneakers, as they stumble up the cobble?

or those inverted lion paws, this city,

this lion on its back, toying with you?

it would maul you if it could but the jaws lie buried in history.

You tread from pad to pad, you and your red sneakers

and your girl, bumping out of tune with each ragged trip on the road.

She gave you her all and you, and you yours,

you are happy to have bled on her steely strands tonight

Who carries who? The patron, flaunting the history there

on the walls in black and white as if he cared a damn?

It is that which loves the sailor inside and nothing else. Or

the songstress willowy before the hippotomamus art and all the soulful carvers who

sculptured this emblem for you. Who carries who? Saint rita or the tunnel light queen or the buddha’s thigh or the volcano in your gut?

They come to hang their heads and drown, all three incarnate, at the bar, they sit in their various incarnations tossing a dime into some spirit or other.

Candelabras, checked pizza mats, the thumping red sneaker on the old worn grey tiles, stamping out all the aches of your desperate yesterdays

to be sure many more to come but who carries who?

One has to ask again and again,

even after the revolution,

especially after the revolution…

the salon?

Or the yellow plastic fish nets.

© Rebecca Rennie 2006

Things Going on in London 2004

THINGS GOING ON IN LONDON 2004

“Burst him” calls the Megaman

before the shot rings out “Not so solid a balloon now!”

It is all over in how many loaded 21 seconds?

Off to the Old Bailey with you.

Scooter lives in the real world

You’d better believe it

She’s chasing the yellow-cake all the way

back to the top of the pile.

And what of Sticky Fingers?

Will Astro congo some apt song?

Or the hold up with the pricing gun and

the robber who cried all the way to the station to dob himself in

The last of the red deckers

a sad day for London town

I ask you why why why

if it’s broken fix it, if it’s not...

And what of the Bishop Don

who sees the undoing of the little boys innocent

as moral waywardness and believe god forgives them

till there is no crime, is it enough then to forgive oneself?

And mad boy Adair knows how to handle a girl

allege this allege that.

Flying car Harry and Russy blue cry

“What is the world coming to?”

When the jukebox, the sport screen, the flashing handled coin-machines

throw the strumming soulster out on the street

we protect the bishop and throw the singer into the pit

with the tigers.

Getting more

and more

civilized

everyday

ã2004 Rennie

High Black Boots

take off your slippers

paint your toes

curl your hair behind your ear

put on your high black boots

and walk like this

walk over there

take off your black mini and your peasant top

put your high black boots

back on

take off your red mini and that green vest

you’re backstage now

chorus

so let me in

and let me do

just what i will

take off your mini dress

it is too grey 

your under-dress goes too

take off your (day) shoes,

you flimsy shirt you!

put your high black boots

back on

the singlet and the track suit

will not do at all

take off your little fur

beware what pots of paint can do

look out for tossers

though i’m not one of those

take off your lace but leave on your hose

chorus

now let me in

and let me do

just what i will

take off your mini dress

it is too grey 

your under-dress goes too

© 2004 R. Rennie

You Lost Me

you lost me, somewhere over here

lost me, no

not at you door

not on the phone

not waiting on that

precipice back home

search your pockets for

one last chance

check the screen for our old romance but

you may never work out

just where you misplaced me

i may show up at your door

i may reach for the line once more

i may be maybe waiting

for you but

you lost me, where

the key hides

always where you swore

you looked there

you lost me

where i said i’d be

and even though you

lost me quite carelessly

you get off the hook cos

it wasn’t intentional, after all,

and you swear you put me

back exactly where you

found me

which is true but

it’s a little, different now

now i’ve

                        lost

                                    you

           

© Rennie 2003

Head-Tilting Londoner in A Cafe

do you imagine you are happy there? with that bucket of champagne and

that cynical makeup smirk painted on your lip?

do you imagine you are profound, the way you slide your eye over every

class act that saunters through the door?

do you imagine you sit straight and proud? your head is tilting, swaying, nodding;

your heavy, unconscious lids –all give you away

do you imagine you’re provocative? sure, there may be a writer 

romancing you over here in the corner on her green-felt-tip but

do you really imagine you’re impressive? mysterious?

in your wool suit, this summer day?

that you can laugh at us knowingly; utterly unknowingly, it seems to me,

and still keep the pearlies open for your own judgement day?

you look unhappy to me and lonely whatsmore

i see you blinking against your will

shutting out some sad reality you 

cannot quite face

have you been disgraced? deserted? stood up?

shouldn’t you call your mother just about now?

is that what this comes down to? do you chuckle all the way down in you? 

or is that just the show you put on for anyone who may happen to catch it?

when you stare into space like that and miss your lips with 

the edge of your glass is it your subconscious or your very soul who 

laughs loudest? they are not one and the same

are you another drunk crime-writer living out of cases in smoochy hotel rooms

with their velvet touch-and-feel wallpaper of paisley and stunted shoots?

is your snicker audible? i cannot hear you from over here

do you laugh or grunt? when was your last joy? how came it to be so stunted?

are you a retired wino? or an aspiring one?

when did you give up on yourself?

will you end up on the pavement or in the drain?

do you care?

 © 2000 Rebecca Rennie

                                      London High St Kensington Cafe