My Deerboy

Biography

DeerBoy is essentially an elaborate attempt to escape from normality and (while I’m at it) mortality. It is also a process of 'seeing through' in the sense of screens, masks, surface and also not running away or shying away from the truth I feel (or what I feel to be truth). A long time ago I spent a long time in a friend’s bedsit and he used to refer to me as his ‘dear boy’ (think Withnail and I). The idea of misinterpreting these well known terms of luvvies endearing themselves to each other and becoming a slightly pagan, man/beast poet/thing took hold. So it was a joke really, at first, but for the last 12 years (at least) I have found DeerBoy (certainly IdeaBoy) has evolved to the point where it can just about stand up. Then I sat in a puddle with some antlers on. My mate took a picture and Deerboy was born. That is the cover of my book: My Deerboy. My Deerboy was written by Yorkshire based Dan Greenwood. It contains over 40 poems set amongst images gathered by the poet. It includes a CD that contains 4 studio tracks and 4 demo tracks.

Samples

Pimps and Gimps floats, the fun of the fair honking and glamorous; showering us with token gifts, sponsors like petrol heads of state smiling, waving with the show in tow- eventually riders appeared; eyeless jockeys, just a few of them; apparitions of carbon fibre fused with framey bodies then more pedalling machines; a shoal, a whirr of them strapped in and pulling at bars. they were hemmed in by clappers and snappers cheering sucked up, brushed along an intestine formed from euphoria that almost attacked them, mauled them as they passed, like a tour of freaks on their way back to Rome. Smartphones when phones were dumb waiters I stood by the shaft; the portal for the lonesome, the point, the fixed place and never gave a second look or took a second longer after 'laterz' than I had to to seal the draft of the cumbersome apparatus that served, lasted, stayed neutral now they’re highly evolved pets; quick mini donkeys, caddy’s with keypads, cuddling into our faces cutting out stairs to keep us in love with contact, in contact with love; our pilot lights Ever on us, active and offering Smart? Arse. I miss the old, passive things that never wanted to come with me everywhere. I miss being left to my own devices. was life less various back then with duller spices? once upon a time I read a book completely before beginning the next. now I seem to dip into things; scan text. there was mind; there was matter. I didn't have one eye endlessly washed by a stream of visual chatter. we seem to underestimate our universe now. we gave into our fear of silence, found blocks to abate agitation. so comes the new generation and they haven’t got a clue. they're happy to use google to get one if they need to. memory is external to them, it is not strange to always be in range and interact and aspire and accept life and identity like a pilot navigating the landfill through readouts and data if that's smart, I'll be smarter I'll keep my songs in my heart for a starter. Pool We have an arrangement and the bus emerges like the back of a big beast that our little ducklings can surf until hit brakes send us over gates into the expectant arms of a surrogate mother, calmly braced; a pool waiting to hold us. Teachers count allocate seats to excited spawn and we travel through Wakefield traffic, all waves between eager little hands at windows and oblivious adults walking around their pond in the dry throat of the city centre; opening cans, bottles, in and out of cafes and pubs all lubricants; free agents, free as frogs now. Some wave back. One man grins and displays his middle finger, ‘He swore sir!’ (As if I could do anything about it) We shunt along like a tank of tadpoles, a representative sample of the future through the thickening stew of everyday life to our hour at our gleaming oasis; our pool. Huddersfield Sports Centre Sketch Huddersfield sports centre: keeping company with Huddersfield’s sky scrapers, a sort of modern sport fortress with a drawbridge of concrete straight off and onto the ring road once it was the 1980’s. It was; I was there with bag swinging friends and after splashing about a bit we explored the fortress like one of our ZX Spectrum games. we went blindly along anonymous corridors up and down flights of solid wooden stairs, between neat walls all grey narrow bricks- something Scandinavian in the design- with pop sounds, lots of ABBA like acoustic bunting everywhere from the turnstiles to the squeaking halls of five-a-side, the bowling green, the weights rooms the staffroom; we got everywhere. One week we attacked. from a balcony above the vast space of the five-a-side we lobbed water bombs, stink bombs down onto men and ran. then it was the 1990’s and I was there queuing with kids with passports for discounts for family sports; now responsible for 3 towels, a climbing frame in the water and an encourager. I was there yesterday in 2014 with my teenager. I talked to another man between lengths; I complemented him on his breast stroke. in the aquatic blue silence I saw his feet point back at me as he glided forwards like birds heads looking down for fish. in my mind I saw my babies feet too as she feeds on the breast of her mother pointing at me as we glide forwards Canada I am bottled and moving incrementally Towards Canada. My top to my shoulders Aiming, willing me to get there one day; If I do it I do it the hard way. Telepathy; No carbon footprint there. Sun glinting And buoyant, I am a capsule of explanations Of what happened to Spain. Nobody gives A hoot about me in Canada; nadie. Nada. Nor For a horn of stories I grabbed off a bulls head. I can pour guittara, tell about dusty, dark Dreams where east is stamped with west; Spun and fused together (flamenco dancer You know its true; I still get a click out of you) anyway I’ve heard Canada is a big place but I play a long game. So draw me up, I’m coming out of the sea. Up the arms of the Atlantic like a floating nut shell Hollowed out to tell. When I get there twist off The cap. The message is in the fumes. Miss Haroon we conduct, follow the code, convey, lead the convoy, the flock through the course of the day. its cloud control; with me being the teacher and you goading, lightening the load helping all to get there, up the pass cover set terrain, keep a class of kids cohesive; reined in. Its slow going when outdoors is gripped as it by a lingering monsoon, Miss Haroon- your manner-your smile-your dazzling tunic: you are the flame in this flame retardant June. from the morning when they amass to the afternoon, when doors burst and they disperse I find our eyes always meeting and I have to drag mine away, tell them off constantly, confiscate emotions I shouldn’t have on me. princess, my guide, I'm just guided to you. I just pray for a day, a time, a place more opportune to get together with Miss Haroon.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.