What I thought of, on the hill
(did a poetry exchange with my friend Jocelyn; this was the result)
What I thought of, on the hill, helps me.
I remember small pub early days
leftover Rolling Stones suits
long since abandoned
helmet hairdos put on hock
and bought from broken up Beatles.
What I thought of, on the hill, hurts me.
Drum, drum, drum the heart goes;
first went Stewart, then Silver,
then Mayhew. Banks and Rutherford
looked lost; then we lost Phillips;
got some new guy named Phil.
What I thought of, on the hill, haunts me.
Opera in my heart, mascara on me face
and I dragged them with me, even Phil,
the new kid, to 102 towns, and performed
the same songs again and again and again
and deep down something stirred with in me.
What I thought of, on the hill, heals me.
Striking out on my own, learned more
about the drum, and the string, and horn,
and the flute, and the synth, and yet
I still had my vox, and kept it close,
and guttural, and high pitched, and smooth.
What I thought of, on the hill, hears me.
And I hear you, in South Africa, and bring
you with me, and hold your vox, healed
from the whips and knives and scars
brought to you by my ancestors; we sing
and hear together a voice that is…
What I thought of, on the hill, helps me.
So scratch my back, for us
Lou Reed, Paul Simon, Bon Iver,
David Byrn, David Bowie, Regina Spektor
up on that hill, and in turn,
I’ll scratch yours.
What I thought of, on the hill, helps me.
I remember small pub early days
leftover Rolling Stones suits
long since abandoned
helmet hairdos put on hock
and bought from broken up Beatles.
What I thought of, on the hill, hurts me.
Drum, drum, drum the heart goes;
first went Stewart, then Silver,
then Mayhew. Banks and Rutherford
looked lost; then we lost Phillips;
got some new guy named Phil.
What I thought of, on the hill, haunts me.
Opera in my heart, mascara on me face
and I dragged them with me, even Phil,
the new kid, to 102 towns, and performed
the same songs again and again and again
and deep down something stirred with in me.
What I thought of, on the hill, heals me.
Striking out on my own, learned more
about the drum, and the string, and horn,
and the flute, and the synth, and yet
I still had my vox, and kept it close,
and guttural, and high pitched, and smooth.
What I thought of, on the hill, hears me.
And I hear you, in South Africa, and bring
you with me, and hold your vox, healed
from the whips and knives and scars
brought to you by my ancestors; we sing
and hear together a voice that is…
What I thought of, on the hill, helps me.
So scratch my back, for us
Lou Reed, Paul Simon, Bon Iver,
David Byrn, David Bowie, Regina Spektor
up on that hill, and in turn,
I’ll scratch yours.
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