Despite the papal canonisation today (broadcast in 3D to select cinemas and News channels, anyone catch that, did they have that swinging, incense lantern flying out atcha?), I feel like I should eschew the subject since I kind of already did the Holy Song Poem last Sunday. Not only that, but try as I might I couldn’t find a Song Poem for a Pope, which I find hard to believe having encountered a fair few about Richard Nixon, Elvis, Christopher Columbus, and Sexploitation actors turned male midwives. So instead I decided to just go straight for the crazy, literally in today’s case. – See more at: http://joup.co/sunday-song-poem-9-feeling-beside-buddy-raye/#sthash.UjekUZsG.dpuf
According to the ‘Malleus Maleficarum’, a 1484 tome on Witchcraft, the ‘Midwife’ was the most dangerous sub-category of harridan, insinuating itself into the confidence of a burgeoning family and wreaking unspeakable havoc on the fruit of their loins before, during and immediately after delivery. Sure as a mucus plug something had to give, and that’s when man stepped in. After much experimentation into their hounding, torture, buoyancy and flammability yielded the groundbreaking discovery that witches didn’t exist, it was deducted that the pestilence of their machinations could be attributed instead to the devilishness and ineptitude inherent in women in general…
‘Gretchen’s New Dish’ is no opus, but like any great work of art, demands of you an engagement, a participation, there is within contained a world to be discovered beyond Dick Kent’s frenzied attempts to dab in the backdrop with his theatrical channeling of a benevolent Bavarian. When first I heard ‘Gretchen’s New Dish’, I was transfixed. When it ended, I put it on again. Sometimes, I would listen to it multiple times. I’d play it for friends, hunched up and grinning, arms squeezed tightly to my sides, index fingers playing air piano. They’d look at me like I’d just masturbated on their wedding cake.
Jim Muir’s ‘The Moon Men’, whether intentional or not, is an undertaking as epic and perilous as the Apollo 11 mission that it chronicles. Muir launches with bravado, realises he’s bitten off more than he can chew, but has to hold on tight for dear life on this one way ticket ride to oblivion. All good Song Poems are measured on it’s performer’s ability to swagger and to a certain degree ‘sell’ the ramblings of the anonymous song poet, here Jim Muir gets cocky, and beats his waxen wings too close to the sun. – See more at: http://joup.co/the-sunday-song-poem-5-john-muit-the-moon-men/#sthash.pQUjVhHQ.dpuf
“There are eight million stories in the naked city…” Pfft, baloney, eight million my eye, what gives – you got smog in the noggin? There are two, just two. Despite continued attempts by those Godless, whore-mongering, smut pedlars at HBO, to debase the genre with real actors and creators with integrity who refuse to hand over their baby to some committee of bastard hacks to cack-handedly lop off the head of the Golden Goose of a good idea, and smash its egg into a potentially endless series of seasons of 20-odd advertisement peppered pieces, there are but two stories in any Crime drama, and you’re going to shut your yap, sit there and listen while Ralph Lowe spoon-feeds you the skinny, capisce?
The Sunday Song Poem #3 Dick Kent ‘Octopus Woman Please Let Me Go’ The inimitable Dick Kent corroborates this Song Poet’s testimony of the hour of Glass Beach’s retribution, of how on this fateful day, Mother Nature rose from the murky depths, tentacles flailing, to give Man what-for, his transgressions against her paid-back eight-fold. “Many galore”. Or perhaps we’re just, you know, bearing witness to the unsung progenitor of tentacle porn… – See more at: http://joup.co/the-sunday-song-poem-3-dick-kent-octopus-woman-please-let-me-g/#sthash.R0IoIBYI.dpuf