I Live Over There - revision

[billy]

I've revised it a bit. So what did you mean by American happenstance, Billy?

i hinged everything on a google and in doing so proved that googling is sometimes the wrong thing to do. the happen-stance being an american death which it wasn't. don't rub it in please

now for a new read

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Revision

Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deploring the darkies and ordering curries much much better version of the line.
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
then falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.

Past bungalows where 999 has been rang doesn't have the same rang as the original, but deals well with two of the ings
for Cornelius Hawkins has let himself hang;
the neighbours come round to hush the dog’s yap
at the rope in the loft from which Con was attached. con really made me stretch but again you remove two ings
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing.

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines.
The train passed straight over and Harry survived,
so he celebrated in style that night i prefer the humour of the original line which was also more profound
and in the wee hours choked on his vomit. i think this and the line above could be improved if they rhymed.
Now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying would dyin' work better?
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in.

Past the park that the council desire for allotments;
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
over cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next;
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head,
that is soon to be shaven, the signs indicate,
for my local estate is a cancerous pate.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface.
The earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit. a better end

i prefer some of the original lines mainly because they felt stronger and had more depth, i did enjoy the read and offer my head for the axe concerning the whole americana debacle


Original


Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deporting the darkies and ordering curries
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories.

Past bungalows greying, decaying and sagging
where Cornelius Hawkins left himself hanging;
the neighbours come round ‘cos the dog kept on yapping
at the rope in the loft from which he was dangling.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing?

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines:
the train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Of course, Harry eventually choked on his vomit,
now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in.

Past the park that the council desire for allotments,
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
on cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next,
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head
that is soon to be shaven the signs indicate
for my local estate is a cancerous pate.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface:
the earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit.