- Shopping Bag ( 0 items )
Ships from: Frederick, MD
Usually ships in 1-2 business days
Ships from: Mount Vernon, NY
Usually ships in 1-2 business days
This time, darkness. This time a heartbeat, a delight in accordance with time.
Can I pray now? Is it time to pray? We could make various perfunctory
comparisons to thunder. We could. We could.
We could replay, look at orchestrations like math equations. But my plaything's
scratchy. Years ago, I realized the double equal sign [==] is used cheaply by
podunk bards, rather like the formalism of lemony car crashes.
So again we pose the question: Can we begin now?
FATHER TO SON
That skipped word, Father, now revisits dissent in a backbeat roundelay. So here
I am recollecting all of this, all of this, as I sing and terminate ideas, start up
others. Water goes right into the bones, Father. Right into the bones.
Famous voices come in each ear as winter comes 'round. An octave for each.
When thunder bursts above the earth, it becomes rain and makes people glad.
And then it starts again, and each time there is an accretion of sweetness.
Water flies into bones I got from you, Dad! My bones == your bones.
WHITE QUEEN [AS ITBEGAN]
The beginning of the virtues, a syntax still shuffled in the old style. In this way,
words are placed as to accent the old style. Old elements rumble. But that jabbing
shows where I'm at, where the grumps tick away?
"You remind me of myself on pot," someone said to me at supper. I wanted him
to mention more wisdoms, retranslate some things, just as lounge acts translate
standards into sitar or accordion. He was just so old and took so long.
But it was no use. The sun had already had gone down.
SOME DAY ONE WAY
The decay and poison and worms all gone now. Within the larger nest, malady
revamped twenty years later by an unnamed Spanish singer. People have deemed
that rendering interesting.
This is the first of the other voice, a Trojan Horse through a megaphone
announcing itself. What's good for the home. You'll come home. And a scratch
before voicing-I hear it now, only out in the wild.
Waiting for bad sequencing, decay and poison, ¿Quando Quando?
THE LOOSER IN THE END
Image and opposite, the family. The rumbling. I've always admired Roger, his
steadfast pop sensibility, but wondered what the other three were thinking as they
heard those badly coached demos.
Blank faces again. Approaching an organ-imagine!-from eight different
directions-another dreary day-then placing it so far in the background that it
makes one question consciousness.
A special, effortful moment, if not for layabout dancing.
All the elements, backward. And is this air analogous? Again, a scream to be
returned to. And time still separates us. Needs tutoring. So many moving parts to
To wit-I can't work on my self-portrait while listening to some boy-girl story.
This is what truly separates us. Fuckin-A right. The sullen artists are not poets, as
many suspect, but re-creators who search for essence while ridiculing.
Rock 'n' roll don't need no referent. Fuck 'em if they think so.
THE FAIRY FEELER'S MASTER-STROKE
Tinkle time. Clock piece moving and muffled. A ladybug somewhere in a
landscape, and people playing period instruments. See? This is what I was talking
about. Now they got me talking about insects.
Looking across the sad river in the early 80s, I carried shrink-wrapped objects in a
bag, still acting the woodsman. At that point, I had not yet decided to give up
the forest for the drawing room. Or even knew there was a choice.
Somewhere in the landscape. Somewhere in the gallery. A pen in the bushes.
The reluctant prodigal of my own whipping can't make out the general gist of the
night. Still thinking again of the outdoors, I suppose. But someone has been
tricked and abandoned. Someone has been crying.
"Ever since Beethoven, piano players have just said, 'Fuck the trill,'" Tom says.
His loafers smooth out the carpet below his seat as he says this. And I feel myself
expand in his scotch as he says this.
Insects, fireflies. My sister in white leather boots.
THE MARCH OF THE BLACK QUEEN
Torn from the arm of Latin prophets, those nights kicking rubber balls around.
Face-to-face tongue twisters with neighborhood girls. Oh, I don't need to tell you
where they are now. Rubber baby buggy bumpers indeed.
Then I said fuck it, 'cos I know there's a traffic circle here somewhere, some
utterance waiting to be snagged. But there has to be silence first. Left ear. Right
ear. No fault in slight humiliation, the good green book says. And me?
I'm thinking of that sweet hole now, the wet statue that whistles across the street.
FUNNY HOW LOVE IS
Now I remember the singing flowers, all running 'round Lower Broadway. And
how I smashed my leg on a piece of stage. Bright makeup on singing flowers.
Bar none, the best drag queen show I've ever seen.
I imagine the hipsters' response, these dropouts on hard folding chairs. A post-Edenic
stance. High notes with raised highbrow movements. And a splashy
arrangement of dandelion, baby fat peeking through.
Let's say, finally, that enchantment can really happen.
SEVEN SEAS OF RHYE
The germinations more, saturnalia more, group screams more. And the whole
issue of playing records for each other in the dusty, seafaring night just goes away.
I look out the corner window and concentrate on coming.
Name parameters here. We're at each other's mercy. And we need to break it up,
to hand over the boom-bap shit-eating grin, gnarly and insultingly common. And
what is that? For once, it's an honest notion of folklore.
To speak and be squished. To misquote. To sing.
Heads romp over turnarounds. There's a video I have that covers the electronics
of his homemade guitar. Brian looks supercute in a winter-themed sweater and
sits in an all-white room with his father. Like a painting with large fingers.
Then he shows how easy this one lick is, and it's laughable. Fast and through six
microphones to boot. One realizes the utter King Learishness of a fingerstretch,
all drawing-room myth of de-webbed hands and fret-spread distance.
How wonderfully nude and fuckable I am; how I ache when I think of this.
Now we can say it, Freddie. Get allegory out of the way. We'll get to that place,
but for now, verisimilitude virtually ends here in a single hand-me-down mention.
No more end-rhymed thee's and thou's.
And I listened once as a child, jumping rope over mom's curly phone cord. AM
radio in the winter. Oldies with the "best new songs." It came out thick, in the
company of girls, cautionary trucker songs and yes, Joni Mitchell.
The narrative, the innocent and the short-lined, all clear as a bell.
Excerpted from GOD SAVE MY QUEEN
by DANIEL NESTER
Copyright © 2003 by Daniel Nester.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Posted May 31, 2004
Daniel Nester is an obsessed fan. Nothing strange there - lots of music books are written by fans. The difference is that Nester - also a New York poet - takes his fandom seriously; he considers it a suitable topic for poetry. And why not? Post-baby-boomers tend to define themselves by their cultural affiliations - whether you like the Smiths or System of a Down, pop taste articulates your personality, your stance towards the world. Nester's prose poems - one for every Queen song - go well beyond the traditional tribute. They explore the odd, obsessive mindset of the fan, the curious distance and closeness he feels towards his chosen object. The poems are madly associative in the Beat tradition but also toy with a pedantic scholarly bent, particularly in the hilarious footnotes. This bold work deserves to be read and discussed.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 17, 2003
Posted May 10, 2003
Posted March 27, 2003
Daniel Nester has captured Queen's influence in a very personal, exciting manner. This man's talents have yet to be tapped as a great poet of our time. Hat's off to more books from Nester!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.