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Lord Alfred Tennyson vs. Camelot

Alfred, Lord Tennyson was the most important poet of the Victorian period. There were many sleepless nights when reading Idylls of the King (before studying heavy metal vs. punk and the post-grunge era and living through the history of post-grunge; and blasting my eardrums, until I couldn't hear the tribal drums of neighbours pounding on my door to turn the music down). Along came The Lady of Shalott (No time hath she to sport and play) and I obsessively read the poem over and over, finding hidden meanings and pondering the mad existence of Baltimore Ravens and Edgar Allan Poe.

Loving this poem obsessively.

When reading more, ever so slowly, discovering a punk band's empty plans to make more Naked Lunch material, it sounded like a bad idea, but a great way to continue the legacy started by the pioneers of hardcore subculture. Did The Shadows Of Camelot go overlooked by mainstream media? Not really, the poem (see below) really sucked and is no different than Jack Kerouac's Mexico City Blues Underground (and probably only read by Bob Dylan). Poetry doesn't always make sense, but what's it actually about?

While sometimes guilty of falling into the trap of writing to amuse myself, I've written to make and reading makes a difference. William S. Burroughs once wrote that "a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on." That was a half-true statement because if the ghost of JFK was hunting you down and you were paranoid that you were going to be next, you should've gotten help. Help won't knock on your door (unless you've played loud music and understood closed captioning,). Nothing is totally nonsensical. I wrote The Shadows Of Camelot based on facts and I wrote the poem because of deep interest in topics of history and dramatic verse.



One summer day we were drunk

Hearing the news start to creep,

Hearing his aeroplane had sunk,

And how he would forever sleep,

For he fell in water of blue,

There dies the American son

On a day to always miss you.

Has death really won

And has it just begun?

Where did John Kennedy go?

Why didn’t time travel slow?


For me three limes in a drink

Drop like the blues and grief

Of a tragedy never to think,

Of a death, without relief,

We hurt to painfully part.

Under a dim light of lunar,

A total eclipse of my heart;

As John’s life was junior

From past steps so heavy,

And, days living bright,

Looking for a ‘63 Chevy,

Like there’s a war to fight.

For John had a common peace,

Unlike the hits from shots

At a Dad, with a brother to cease,

You’re in our hearts and thoughts.

For where did John Kennedy go?

Why didn’t time travel slow?


One angel lives with others,

There with the water abound,

Together to last with lovers

And exist below the ground;

To travel days forever free,

To march with Uncle Rob

In an endless, timeless sea,

Sinking, you made me sob.

For seeking power of late

Such faceless and tired tears,

Such a mourning, fragile state:

Nineteen-sixty and eight years,

Now we’ll see a peaceful crime.

Those images do kneel in appeal

While a stopwatch passes time

In a godly place of feel,

Transfiguring a bar to church,

Drawing lush eyes to be blind,

Forming crowds closer to lurch,

Timing news travels to unwind.

And, there is me, in the heat,

I’m fitted for passing to bed

Beyond a backwards beat,

Over a eulogy from Ted --

Where did little Johnny go?

Why can’t time travel slow?


The water greeted him unknown,

As a page of history was torn

From a show all but alone,

I awake to a sleepy morn,

Yesterday John was born.

Where did John Kennedy go?

Why didn’t time travel slow?

Perhaps, we'll never know.

I wrote this years ago to say

“John Junior has gone away.”

I would just keep writing from the arse. More delusional greatness, but I love to write. The Legend Of The Wicked Path (originally Footpath).


Below the ankle I could feel a sensation,

Almost sensual and drunk

As I stumbled on a tree trunk,

Mumbling curses of aggravation.

Bumbling around the forest late into the night,

I was lost behind a shrub and softwood.

I saw the Lady of the Night who stood,

She beamed silent rays of light.

I looked far left and noticed a dark trail,

I looked far right to see bats in flight,

And an injured deer blinded by Her sight.

Could ahead of me be the Holy Grail?

I walked and walked for unearthly hours,

It was my imitation but Her creation.

I began to fly like ancient aviation

Searching for Mother Nature's powers.

Jesus, my eyes burned as the sun came up

And I looked for Camelot ahead of me,

But there was just a river and tree

Beside Mother Nature's empty cup.

I was thirsty, fearfully holding my knife

And looking around in every direction.

I sat down under lonely protection.

She was the creator of life.

Silently, I realized forbidden paths of sensation

And fascinating leaves of dark red,

And all-embracing discourse unsaid

All were in Her forest of creation.

I grabbed the cup and I filled it up all the way.

I knew I’d taken a wrong turn along the path.

Ready to submit to Nature's almighty wrath,

I drank the water turning blackish grey.

The dirty water was disgusting like a toxic ale

And everything started to spin like mad.

I was feeling so sick and I hurt so bad,

After choosing the wrong Holy Grail.

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