About

We all know Rob Morris's dynamic and engaging performances, but in print he proves to be a subtle and precise technician as well. This collection delights with its variety of approaches — the pages talk to each other in their different accents. We've encountered some of these poems before; now it's time to really engage with them

Ross Clark

Proudly published by Post Pressed

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Extract

The Cloudland Funicular Cha-cha

Black shellac solid vinyl
scratches sounds from a time
when the whole world wore hats.
I am counting the stars above Newstead
and doing the funicular cha-cha.
And jive was for juve delinks/ be bop / here we go
~ blue note and Billie's nocturne lay a flow
A gal in a Lindy satin skirt & mohair top
berserks Go, cats, Go!
Voodoo / trance / dance dance.

In Sammy's Late Night Cafeteria
musical hysteria ~
Clayfield Clarry roars That Viper can blow!
and he'd be a bloke deep in the know
playing on a different bandstand every night
up with the gods like the Billo Smith Band / be bop
or CLOUDLAND CLOUDLAND CLOUDLAND
where you just might go crazy with our altitude's air

Be bop / bobby sox / here we go!
Slip us the lubricant!
Hey, you hoons, don't break those chandeliers:
put those shivs away!
Be bop / way back/ way back in the ether
when the whole world wore hats
that same gravel-voiced DJ intoned
Here's a little tune you just might know.
Black shellac solid vinyl
To that mating ground of the lusty free here we go!
CLOUDLAND CLOUDLAND

Large as life, here I be,
counting the stars above Newstead,
laughing out loud, chomping Juicy Fruit,
with the heavens dripping from my powder-blue suit ~
doing the Funicular Cha-cha.

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