Joseph Ridgwell is the author of two books of poetry, Where Are The Rebels? And Load the Guns both published by Blackheath Books. And a novel, Last Days of the Cross published by Grievous Jones Press. His work has appeared in Short Story Anthologies, literary collaborations, magazines, and numerous Online Publications.
Joseph Ridgwell's Blog: In Search of Lost Elation
Where are the Rebels? Where are the rebels? Now that the days are long And the nights are short And I think about those who have died And those that are still alive And those that have yet to be born And those that will never be born Pass the wine Rock and Roll And fuck everything No compromise I only believe in myself And you So don't be afraid of the dark Be afraid of the morning For the morning always tells the truth See the lines around your eyes Crows feet And as the sun rises I raise my beer and ask Where are the rebels?
Just another Day in the Cross Bibi the Brazilian tranny is standing on the corner of Victoria and William Asking if anyone wants to see a lady The radio man plotted at the El Alamein fountain His battered machine eternally tuned to a golden oldies station The Root, Toot, and Shoot crew are on the nod outside Macdonald’s Performing delicate balancing acts Like a deranged band of fucked up gymnasts The two famous bums are sitting in another open-air living room in Barncleuth Square Two settees, broken TV, coffee table, hat stand, dirty old mattress Drinking that good cheap port wine and shouting and growling And laughing at the sun Two strippers in the doorway of Playbirds International Flashing some skin, thighs, cleavage, everlasting smiles Juanita, the beautiful but damned aboriginal junky outside the piccolo bar Waiting to meet her man The old Chinese Brass licking another 15c cone Touting for business outside the closed Bureau De Change A lone and somewhat dispirited spruiker paces the entrance to the Pink Pussy Cat Smoking a cigarette and scowling a deadbeat scowl Its forty degrees in the shade And down at Bondi backpackers are lined up like seals on the beach And sunny blonde surfer boys and girls are catching blue Pacific Ocean waves But the Cross is where all the action is I’m sitting on a bench outside Rite Way Sucking on an ice-cold longneck of Toohey’s Red from a brown paper bag And taking in the Darlinghurst Scenes Scribbling notes about everything in an old crumpled notepad Dreaming of becoming a writer or a poet or something On the Main Drag In the last moments of the twentieth century.
The Kiss For the dream is a kiss goodbye From a street hooker on a ragged city street corner 6AM on a dead sunday morning Feeling immortal and laughing at the sun
Jesus Christ in Kings X
6.30AM grey morning long gone blues In the Cross Sun’s pale yellow rising Misty across the harbour I’m drinking beer on the corner of Bayswater and Darlinghurst Observing the jaded death weekend morning scenes Shift workers pounding the sidewalks Junkies searching for the lost elation Drunks asleep in Barncleuth square Cross rats and dirty ibis foraging Until an amazing, gleaming apparition Suddenly appears At the end of the main drag Illuminated in dirty golden sunshine And coated head to toe in neon red paint Arms outstretched Head bowed A last orders hooker walks past Mini-skirt, cleavage Hard junkie stare She raises her skirt and I cop a view But keep staring at the man A totem of something The resurrection Or Jesus Christ in the Cross
The Cappuccino Kid - 2009-10-21 06:47:11
Offbeat poetry at it's best
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