The Come-Out Kid

I create car accidents

then stand back and

watch the semi jack-

knife, at any crossroad I

know will bring the

mayhem on.

My favourite is back home

corner of the park

angles of the turn

means they can’t win.

I make the cars and trucks from scraps

I set the lights just so

no-one ever dies, the

thrill is on the go.

These two big blokes Jeff B and Harri Ford

Sling mud in the yard

Strike out and miss each other

every time

(all thanks to me).

Yeah there I am again

this little girl with her big way

charging the grownups down

as they distract themselves from the tasks ahead.

We have to find a little boy

who’s hiding in the world

we got a call from Montreal

he may be hiding inside th’ piano

he’ll be in one somewhere

hiding, that’s for sure.

I think he may be here for

there is a 1 at the head of the number

which indicates the states

but I’m convinced it is Canada,

no other place.

Where the snows drift

the bears amble freely

where little boys and such

can lose themselves away from

grown up things to be.

I am Godmother now and

On the scene

Making things

come

true

like little girl one moment

and spell-toker the next

living in imaginary houses full of magic

and antiques chests.

But not even money can

save this little boy

he’s running from the things which make him scared

he’s got us all destroying ourselves

while he goes off, right off.

All the time

(until we get the call from afar)

he’ll be inside a piano some day

that is sure

but not on this continent

nor where we are.

Hey little boy

there’re two men, a girl and a Godmother

Racing round lifting the lid on

all kinds of music just to find you.

Checking the death toll and

what’s padding the strings

come out kid!

Someone regrets stuff soon enough

or the trailer jack-knifes and

it ain’t no game no more.

Come out kid! The game’s over.

© Rebecca Rennie 2008 Dream

Two Trees

You give it out

You give it all

But don’t collapse into me
Not just yet

I may be a hammock

You can swing there for a time

But we need two trees

To climb

We need two trees

on either side

Once we have two trees

Strong and tall

On which to tie the ends

To bind our souls

Only then will we

Swing between them freely

© 2007 Rennie

Who Is The Enemy?

We are elfins

But we are in a war zone

I’m the Resistance

Or along those lines

Dressed up like nuns

One minute we are rescuing them the

Next it is me who needs rescuing

I have a little money box

Under my robe

Stealthy as can be but

I don’t see the enemy

Lay low lay low

No-where else to go

The enemy is still inside

Not you, but me

© 2007 Rennie

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