Roadkill

roadkill_frontcover_210_300Dave’s eighth book is a poetry collection. The idea for the title poem was conceived over 30 years ago and has taken over a year to finally get down on paper!  The rest of the work has been divided into three sections and also spans a number of years’ work.  Published as a paperback and e-book in October 2013 by Ponty Press.

‘Dave Lewis’ new work opens with Henry Thoreau’s famous quote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation”. Very apt in our Twitter-twatter, X-Box-Factor age when apathy, indifference, and resignation is the norm and the – increasingly – lost generation slumber party away their lives wearing Onesies. This book of verse is polemical, confessional, a slap in the face wake-up call, and a much needed challenge to all “those up there” who should have, and could have made it better. Sadly, therefore, not likely to be very popular with the Arts Council aficionados, but speaking and reaching out to all those that really count. “The Voice”, is for real here and poetry is back where it belongs, right there at the heart of the matter.’ – John Evans

‘A remarkable collection from Dave Lewis’s heart and soul. From the stark “Roadkill” to “Run Towards the Fire” his honesty doesn’t flinch.  Achingly good.’ – Sally Spedding

‘At times witty, at times gritty, Dave Lewis has produced a fascinating collection on human connection. The humour is dark, the love is bright, the poetry is touching, taunting, spewing, galling, tender. Modern life is out there and engulfing but the passion for truth still lives. Roadkill overflows with personality, it’s a roller-coaster ride, and to use the words of the poet “I’m smiling like Tenby”.’ – Eloise Williams

This book can be purchased direct from the author as a paperback or as an e-book for Amazon kindle.


Sample poems:

Tweet

A good friend of mine, who doesn’t talk to me, or telephone me, or ask what I’m up to or if I fancy a beer anymore, e-mailed me last minute to say she’s on Twitter and that I should ‘follow’ her. She added that she’d be on Facebook if I ever needed to get hold of her in an emergency, and asked why I wasn’t her friend yet, even though I thought we’d been friends since we started school together, on the same day in 1970…

Anyway, I thought why not? Get with the program Dave, you’ll be left behind soon you cyber dinosaur you!

So I tried this Twitter thing.

I signed up and waited.

Nothing happened.

Then I sent a text (one of only 3 this year btw) to my oldest, best friend (pending) to ask how it all worked and when I could hope to start reaping the benefits and all.

She replied instantly (almost before I’d hit ‘send’ in fact).

‘Doh! U hv 2 fllw peeps mun butt! *%$£” – hehe, Lol.’

‘Try Fry.’

And I did. I started to search for and follow all the ‘Dave Lewis’s’ I could find.

There were a lot.

I found full-time playboys, semi-nude classical yard gnome repairmen, filmmakers, musicians, Iron Maiden-loving civil servants, glass blowers, erotic nude photographers, Great Fathers / Decent Husbands, Semi-Pro Golfers, Youth Wrestling/Baseball Coaches, Proudly Serving America, and Blessed With the Best Friends a Man Could Have, Independent thinkers, Transcendental Meditation Center Yogi’s, truckers, rugby players, Lovers of music, films, Sopranos, football, Branston pickle, 24, Family Guy, scampi, Tang Soo Do and its related art Tai Chi, Editors of the TARDIS Newsroom and a U.S. Senate staffer. I didn’t follow the god botherers, businessmen or marketers (seemed a bit pointless), but I did follow a lot of me’s.

I waited.

Nothing.

Despondent now, I walked (using my legs) down the pub.

I entered, and discovered the place was heaving with single people (all engrossed in iPhone masturbation), couples sat across the table from each other (sending texts to people who weren’t there, but should be, ‘cos they were missing such a great time), gangs of girls (all tarted-up in their best texting outfits, implements charged and waving like dildos), in between sips and snarls at the gangs of boys, all tooled up in SuperDry & Hollister, text (ing?) wireless members of the faction for reinforcements.

Occasionally, a boy, or a girl, or a robot, would glance my way, and undress me of my t-shirt from Zanzibar, project violence into my smiling eyes. The eyes that filled with tears as the sun rose over that temple in the jungle, the eyes that gaped wide at those elephants in musth, the eyes I rubbed salt from when the dolphins and turtles outswam me, and the eyes that nearly went snow-blind on the equator, up that volcano.

I log on again Sunday morning, with a sore head, think it’s alcohol-related, this hollow feeling lurking in my stomach.

Still waiting.

Still nothing.

Except offers to be someone else. Read about them. Connect with them. Find out about them. What they’re doing. How well they’re doing.

The me’s I’ll never know exist.

And I press the ‘Back’ button to the girl I stood next to. At the hot bar, with the hot pants.

I smiled and asked her if she came here often. She spat out her reply with the venom of a cobra (I saw once in Tanzania) and was gone, all too satisfied, she had logged off, momentarily, disconnected from her network, risked the downtime, to push between me and a DriftKing to order her shots.

‘Get a life granddad!’ she’d mispronounced, confusing textspeak with real speak.

I had to withdraw my puppy dog eyes. Go home, log on, search for that life.

That life I’ve been wasting up to now.


Glass

in the back garden

throwing out old photographs

Everest shards

send a final warning

as glass flames

dare me to slip

as I stare, mesmerised,

watching your smiling face

disappear beneath

the rising rubble

of mistakes


Until Tomorrow

Walking at dusk through the old park,

the golden glow of forgiveness

hangs in the air long enough

for you to steal it with both hands

but you choose not to,

you choose, deliberately,

to let the sun set on that particular episode.

You walk the other way,

past the lake, past the flowerbeds

until you become traffic,

become a remnant,

for I will not open that wound again,

will not offer the exquisite beauty of autumn

in exchange for your eyes,

those all-consuming lips,

that soft touch and hard hug.

No. It will not happen again this sharp day,

I promise, I swear in my best verbs.

Until tomorrow then.


Lies

they say time

is a healer

when actually it’s time

that kills us


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