Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “ Dust “.

Jon was back this week after his long weekend off, his selection of topic was prompted by psych-folk outfit, “The Dust Revival Band” being on the show.

Now”Dust” is, on the face of it a no-brainer and you’d be so right. The rituals of the suburbs proved positively irresistible.

And for those of you with a long memory; “Yes”, there was a poem titled “Dust” back in December 2007.  Jon chooses the topic, I just write the poems.

Ed Bates is back on slide guitar this week, always a good thing

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20120617.mp3]

Also have a listen to the tracks on the new EP “Once We Were Kings Of The World


Dust (21012)

The smallest speck of dust had Dorrie Purvis in a fluster
Felt nude without her rubber gloves and trusty feather duster

Rain or shine, Dorrie rose at six o’clock each morn
Cleaned the stove, while husband Sid, prepared to mow the lawn

Everyday she’d go to war with scrubbing brush and broom
Wax and buff the lino, then, vacuum every room

Hone and shine the fondue set, soak the towels in bleach
Brush the chenille curtains, and iron them, two times each

Comb the shag pile carpet, each strand laid left to right
Polish all the silver; the only time it saw the light

Swab the mauve venetian blinds, rinse and dry each slat
Disinfect the telephone, shake the seagrass mat

Sanitise the doilies, scrape underneath the fridge
Plump the velvet cushions, embroidered with the Harbour Bridge

Dust the flying ducks; give the braided rug a beating
Inspect the couch for dandruff then replace the plastic sheeting

But the bathroom was her palace, she tended it with pride
No whiskers in this basin, Dorrie made Sid shave outside

Though visitors were welcome, none ever used the toilet
Bodily functions, Dorrie felt would only spoil it

Meanwhile, in the garden, Sid cleared cobwebs, under eaves
Strung netting round the trees and shrubs to capture falling leaves

Round each bush, a car tyre; painted high gloss white
A six foot concrete brolga, concealed the front yard light

Seven days a week, Sid mowed, which neighbours thought a farce
Since all, except the nature strip, was artificial grass

He cleaned the Zephyr every day, as often as the stove
This seemed a trifle odd as neither Sid nor Dorrie drove

One arvo Dorrie noticed the bathroom door was locked
Paced up and down the hallway, cleared her throat and knocked

No response, she quickly tired of trying to be discreet
She yelled out “Sid, remember, your arse is not to touch the seat”

Still no reply from Sid, and Dorrie busting for a pee
Placed a clothes peg on her nose and went and grabbed the key

Sid was perched bolt upright – dead; wide eyed as Ginger Meggs
Dorrie, bladder bursting, had to pee between his legs

It seems poor Sid had died while doing crosswords in the loo
Dorrie mopped around him; what else was she to do?

The undertakers came but Dorrie stopped them at the door
Made them take their shoes off so they wouldn’t scuff the floor

The funeral was a quiet affair; the church was small, but neat
Dorrie greeted mourners and made sure they wiped their feet

The casket, marble Laminex; Dorrie was insistent
Stylish, tough, but best of all, dirt and stain resistant

Only at the graveside did Dorrie lose control
“I’m worried ‘bout the dust” she sobbed “Not his bloody soul”

So Sid returned to whence he came; as do we all, in time
Illusion is a thin veneer and can’t expunge the grime

For leaves will fall, paint will peal, cars will yield to rust
Despite our grand pretences, the world is nought, but dust

© Copyright 2012 Ian Bland

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