In my post on Peter Reading's death here, I expressed my embarrassment at not having known he had passed, but I trust I honoured his memory with that post, as I return today and honour again on the second anniversary of his death. In the way these situations/occurrences can continue to throw up further depths, I have only just noted that with my celebratory review of Reading's book Shitheads here, I had written it only three days before his passing.
I'd like to think Reading would have warmed to these ironies of ignorance and good intentions. He certainly worked as a writer at the boundaries of good and bad taste, lyricism and fragmentary or functional language, and caustic to whimsical reflection. I trust therefore it is totally apt to put here two poems from Reading's 1994 book Last Poems, a self-reflecting but also projecting account of the death of a poet and his writing and language itself. I will post two: the first, Midnight, is for me wonderful in the way it can convey lyricism in describing an antithetical urban 'asphalt' location [the power of love, even in loss, dominant within], and second, Valedictory, where he plots decline in the harsh humour that reveals a way of coping:
MIDNIGHT,
a hotel bedroom, open window,
sibilant tyres on rain-washed asphalt streets
whispering a repetitious finish, finish.
You stroke your lover comprehensively,
who purrs contentment, clings to your neck and sobs.
Sibilant tyres on rain-washed asphalt streets
whispering a repetitious finish, finish.
VALEDICTORY
This buffer's in full retreat,
had more than enough, wants out,
can't hack the hassle, the horseshit,
the bozos on mountain bikes,
the user-hostile high-tech,
the esoteric subculture
where 'The Gorgs plant binoony berries
which the Fraggles just can't stand!',
where 'T-Bag meets Dr Strangebag
and rapidly goes off fish!',
where each successive bulletin
is more wacky, sad, obscene...
This buffer's had more than enough,
wants out, is in full retreat.
