Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

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

Afternoon Jon, and once again greetings from Coventry, where the snow’s finally abated only to be replaced by constant drizzle.

On the bright side it briefly reached double figures this afternoon sending the locals scurrying for their T-shirts, shorts and sandles with long socks, leaving me looking like dog’s balls in thermals and anorak.

You may recall a few weeks ago I mentioned The Herald Sun’s riveting banner proclaiming the breaking news “Ararat hosts Biggest Loser”.

This week The Coventry Telegraph led with the equally mesmerising “Man receives one year ban from library”.

It just goes to prove travel does broaden the mind.

And as for this weeks theme, Jon I curse you on behalf of rhymers everywhere, because as you probably know, in the rhyming world “Orange” is a “Lemon”.

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20130414.mp3]

Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse


Orange

Beverly Purvis to the seventies was chained
While that decade ended long ago, Beverly remained

Lava lamps, egg chairs, vibrant and pristine
The décor, a subtle blend of orange and lime green

Camisoles and hot pants, high wasted denim flares
Spaghetti strapped tank tops, orange, like the chairs

A chrome atom chandelier, bathed the lounge in light
The kitchen, glazed with orange tiles, not a pastel tone in sight

Once the height of fashion now horribly outdated
To everyone but Beverly, the colour scheme now grated

One night in nineteen ninety eight as Bev took off her choker
She fancied a Virginia Slim: she’d always been a smoker

While searching for the lighter in her Boho crocheted bag
It tangled in the carpet, an orange, long pile shag

Bev fell onto her fondue set, the skewers went through her knees
Then headfirst in the dipping pot and drowned in molten cheese

It was death by misadventure, the coroner recorded
While the cause was indisputable, the details were more sordid

Bev hadn’t choked on Stilton, Danish Blue or Brie
It was common processed cheddar: so nineteen seventy three

Her things went to the Op Shop, and in time began to rot
Till a dealer spied them out the back, paid twenty bucks, the lot

Now he’s asking fifteen hundred for the vinyl bar stools – each
No longer classed as orange, no they’re Autumn Sunset Peach

The orange velvet pouf that was such a pig to clean
Is now listed as a “Love Seat”, in Atomic Tangerine

Fashion is a fickle beast, both arrogant and chaste
We, so insecure, entrust it with our taste

A hue, once loved, repels as our sense of judgement falters
It is us who dull, not colours, for the rainbow never alters

© Copyright 2013 Ian Bland

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