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A Poem That Isn’t Part of Lyrpole and the Jarg Flim or Ark Noon, Just a Poem, It’s Called The Fukushima Cat and the Filipino Dogs

The Fukushima Cat and the Filipino Dogs

Call me Mr. A, though A shouldn’t make you

think I’m called Andy or Aidan or Anderson or Alvarez

or anything like that.

What’s important, more than that I don’t want you knowing my name,

is that I was at a gig with a real sweet girl, she was eighteen at the most, and I know,

I’m too old

but that was it you see, I couldn’t go on, I was sick to death

of seeing the fog falling over me,

of being like a moor

in the morning after a night of rain.

If I told you about my ex-wife, you’d know

I’ve had a life of rain.

That’s why I started going to gigs,

I wanted to find a girl, call her the dew

on dawn grass

or if that’s too vulgar then call her Dawn.

So we were dancing, me and Dawn,

when the music just all of a sudden stopped.

I’d been feeling ill for a while, too many nights

googling until dawn came, isn’t that an irony;

I wouldn’t know how.

But I was tired and maybe it was the pills

or Dawn’s hand in my jeans, I started going dizzy

and then I was alone.

Mirror balls in an old Northern Soul dance hall,

though Dawn wouldn’t know what it meant

to slide across linoleum.

This empty room of mirror balls and given up

dance moves, and the stage had this fog over it.

Is that you, wife, returning?

And when it cleared there was no Dawn coming towards me,

but what I saw, oh Christ what I saw, was a cat standing like a man

and he was dressed in leather.

They were all in leather; the cat straddling a microphone,

the dog band behind him, but the thing is they all looked as ill as I felt, really wrecked.

He looked at me, the cat.

He looked at me and he screamed something I couldn’t hear

because one of the dogs had a saxophone and blew it.

He had a real jazz style that dog, real Charlie Parker.

They played a set, oh Christ they played a set,

and I started dancing, I’d never danced like I danced in that room to that music.

Man, that cat could sing.

They had this one song, Dawn Howl, and it was about me.

I mean it, they knew my name and everything, they kept saying it and looking right at me.

They knew about my wife too, all of it.

The cat kept singing this one line over and over,

he sounded almost like Peter Gabriel, like Peter Gabriel mixed with Roy Orbison

or maybe just like a really young Mick Jagger.

I’m telling you, I still can’t get it out of my head,

it went; You aint the rain, you the fog man, you the fog man,

you aint the rain,

you the fog man, you the fog man, you the reason

for this fooooooooooooooooooooooooooog. Then a dog hit this big guitar solo that killed me.

I knew what the cat meant.

When I came round I was in an alley behind the club

and Dawn was calling me these terrible names and hammering my chest with her fists,

but I didn’t care.

I just started singing the song over and over as I walked off.

You the fog man, you the fog man, you the fooooooooooooooooooooooooooog man.

Mr. A! she was shouting after me, but I kept walking.


About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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