47 - Three hot weeks

Thank you to Paul Woods of Paradox Island, Ventnor for allowing me to reproduce this image. It depicts one of Paradox Island's one-of-a-kind and highly collectable artworks and is from a vast catalogue of witty and intriguingly mysterious figurines, prints and posters with a dash of pathos, all browsable at Paul's shop on Ventnor High Street (open and ready with the ideal Christmas gift for everyone during the week beginning 5th December) and at all times at www.paradoxisland.com. My grateful thanks also to Ryde's own musical genius LEAF for creating the dub mix in the soundtrack below, and for allowing me to use it here. More from LEAF can be found on Instagram, facebook and X @leaf_dnb

The drawings are my own.

So now to my story. As I shiver in the December cold, and golden oldie Christmas tunes are a constant earworm, I think back to the sweltering days of summer just gone, and something that happened to me during those hot-heady days. Some of the words below will be all too familiar, some others were inspired by the above Teapot Head, a print of which I have in my kitchen and whose predicament seemed to express my own situation and feelings at the time.

Summer of 2023 - Three hot weeks.

It’s a new dawn,

I wake with the words

pressing through the borderlands

of drowsing consciousness.

I am nudged by a pulsing murmur.

A pounding mounts my awakening form -

a persistent percussion.

Not just my own solitary heart today

but an accompanying rhythm,

faint and mysterious, yet real.

“Is that you, Roy?”

A whisper:

“Pretty woman”...

Walking down the street,

barely perceptible,

or a crescendo of throbbing passion.

Smile that smile at me.

My lover is old-fashioned -

bygone beats on repeat.

But it’s a new day -

Nobody gets too much love any more.

Endlessly round my echo-chamber head.

My brain a brass teapot,

Lid ajar

I’ve got chills

explodes and fills

my head.

They’re multiplying.

Historical hits

and I’m losing control

ebb and flow

tormenting me

on the edge of insanity.

I round the bend.

Will he be there, turned on,

and waiting for me?

I’ve got so much love,

Running through my veins

Echoing round my head,

echoing notes from a tin can,

far, far away

up the street

tensely expectant,

grenades for kneecaps

knuckles fist downwards - ready for the fight.

I fling off my jacket,

My hips sway, despite myself.

Staying alive,

My head, bigger than anything,

about to blow.

We fade to grey.

My head bigger than anything,

Metal ruff – strangling me –

Golden-brown, texture like sun

“Thank you for submitting your Noise Diary Log Sheets which I have assessed. They do appear to provide evidence of nuisance. Further investigations are being undertaken to support legal action against the perpetrator. Yours sincerely

Environmental Health Manager, Isle of Wight Council.”

Silence is golden, golden.