Dave Reed (or Byron as he was known on the scene)
was one of the best Coventry poets on the Coventry scene in the 70's. He later branched into writing radio plays. He was a regular at the Coventry Arts Umbrella (which is where I met him) and was an integral part of the scene. His work was influenced by Leonard Cohen, Ginsberg and Zen, Taoism and more. I would hang with Dave c 1972 / 3 during the day in Coventry city centre and cafes - he was 5 or 6 years older than me and sagely. Walking the streets of Coventry he gave me my first introduction to Zen and Taoism. I was mesmerised more by surrealism and the optimism of the counter-culture and Dave was more cynical and realist. He kept me grounded and I still admire his work. I don't know if he ever got properly published but I think he's one of Coventry's finest poets, playwrights and characters. On the Coventry music scene - he was our Ginsberg. I'd love to see his work published and recognised. In 1973 Dave gave me a batch of poems to use with Hobo and here are some of them.
The sketch is by Jackie Finch
|
T |
ell me once again Malcolm
About the magicians.
What spoils are they into now?
It’s true Malcolm
They never could teach me magic.
Yes Malcolm I was lost
Way lost and all they were
Doing was showing me the simplest spells.
All they were doing was arsing about.
And I was looking on
With my sternest eyes.
What a laugh Malcolm, they were laughing.
Tell me once again Malcolm
How we arrived you and me
On the same day.
At this asylum reception desk.
You with your luggage full of magic
And me empty handed…..
Published in Hobo No 2 Aug 1973
M |
Y father
Who I hadn’t seen for donkey’s years
And who hadn’t spoken to me for so much longer.
Came to piss in a toilet
Where I was already pissing.
We looked across
The crashing water.
I saw his red tyrant eyes.
I looked down
And saw
He held his prick
Like I held mine.
If only we’d known this
Earlier!
............
|
I |
f I got
Somehow.
Paralysed
Would you stay
With me?
Don’t talk wet,
He said.
He shook his head.
Why do you fuck evenings
Up with asking
Me such things?
Me, who paid for your Cherry B!
Who’s given you more than one ‘Players’
This night.
He then pulled her close
Gave her mouth a jawbreaker
Band with his.
She sprang away as if his lips
Were drawing pins.
I’ve got to know she screamed.
The pub suddenly had faces.
He went bright red.
That night
In lover’s lane
He beat her up.
He’s done it before
And this time he spat
‘Paralysed’
as he clobbered.
.......
they tell me pretty pop star is
god almighty they believe it if
you could hear them praise him
you’d believe they believe it
the pretty pop star says to
the world I certainly don’t
believe I’m god almighty
I’m no angel says pretty
pop star one eye on the
mirror the other on his
belief that he can make ‘em
scream like no one can make
‘em scream
no hero
no a-bomb
no acrobat
no dracula
can make ‘em scream like he can
ugly fat sweaty man called manager
pats his bottom and says
‘go make ‘em scream’
pretty pop star sayeth ‘ hey! I feel
pretty good!’
leaps up to the mirror so his
nose is against the glass
and winks at himself
‘tomorrow, it’s a sauna bath for you,’
guffaws the manager signing
something or other with gold plated
biro ‘hey! I feel pretty good!’
says pretty pop star
and well he might
so many cute little eyes
so many tingling little thighs are about
to tell him he’s god almighty
tremble and scream a massive wave
of worship over his little body
attempt to sink their souls into
this pretty god almighty.
|
T |
Hey
The baldheaded ugly men
In morbid suits
Bloodred ties in
Colourless department of
Employment offices
Chat to me
‘and why haven’t you got a better working record?’
Why you?
And I bow my head
And weep I suffer
From tiredness
Tiredness and
In the streets by the january
Sales shops filthy with
Bargin hunters
Christian hunters hunt me down
Shove salvation passports into
My eyes and squeal the
The end – beginning – end
Is nigh, why haven’t you
Saved yourself? And I
Bow my eyes to the slush
Choking the gutter and weep
I suffer from tiredness
Tiredness and in my bed
The girl rubs the ointment
Of her limbs into the sore
Of my need and I hold on to
Her like one holds a leaf
In an autumn wind
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