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Rob McCorquodale, 06 Dec '12

The youth triumphant.

Part 1.

The undefined two of the singular peoples gang
walked with the power of two hundred,
in the swing of capital youth.
These the eminent revivalists of the glories role,
breathing as the only healthy lung left to live,
destroying the path, fanning it all to failed growth.

'We the few, the omnipotent two,
open up on the blankest of white pages,
we the two, the glories few, go for our style
like magnet over plastic,
just like the brave always should'.

'Let's create a battalion of hunger,
let's stone ourselves in the city plaza,
let's be the awkward number!'

'Standing bowed over the shore
we've castled more than the ages,
we need dreams to scream into the day!'

'Ha bullet the blackboard,
deceive the rhythm of consumed understanding
and paint it all as out will!'

Charge light, hoist the maligned, were gone for it all,
Allez Tres enfants and all that garb!


Corners bowed their un-linear selves to the rhythm of toe and heel,
it was juvenility, the bastion of this, the svelte nation,
the glory to herald it all, along the driven channel.

So they rent for their time like the young should,
as if none had lived,
just none structured abandonment.

'Here we leave the rancid corpse behind,
boil the keyhole kettle, round up the saccharine,
the boys of lost ascension have grown a cord,
the boys of immutable cadence
the boys the rumble it all!'

This was the theme, the flag, the charge.
Two, embalmed in glorious insignia
parading this idyll as norm.
Skin and tooth, hereditary unchanged
cast it out sway,
see youth, the swine of it all, carried their hopes.

Fresh from iconoclastic visions,
fresh from the sapling eye,
dreaming of being touched and remaining untouched,
of causing effect and damning the solid norm.

'Go, Go, Go for the bulldozer.'
They scratched into the wind.
'Plainly grasp your evaporating time
and smash down the gates of enlightened perdition,
become the encapsulation of all that's lost.'

Gadzooks! Ha. Ha. Ha. Gadzooks and all that rubbish!


Gregor and Ulrich, the new Gods of illumination,
the entity of forward progression,
being of the same age and inclination,
that of the need to escape and reclaim
to rebel and resolve
to renage and run forth.
Gregor and Ulrich
the obvious flag bearers,
never the first, but the next to run from the mould
the bright young spirits
eager to trumpet the sea change.

'Come let us blow the gates from the cradle,
sod the tide, sod the happy fight,
loneliness screams daily, time is forfeited,
its gone to the tame, realise the power of abstraction
be all you can be and wear it in the midday sun!'

The pair having grown apart from the regular
Straying from the hundred man craze,
developing language of cult their own.

'Romance is the gloried perfection,
Love, Love, Love, Love,
who dare tell me what it is now?
Damn any to stand and perched,
I'm the bow, the bloody arrow et al!'

Pulling each other up at the boundaries of their new cultural ways,
they relied only on the knowledge
everything else merely existed for the sport of their game.
Everything lived at their wave,
ceased at their blink,
exhumed at their tongue.
These the so very brave few,
the drummer boys alone.

'Gone is the support, the following masses,
its just the drum on its own,
so very much brave to take it all on its own!
Hail singular.'

'Hail strength in movement!
Hail vastness of two alone!
Let's break the back of the habitual,
blow them all harder along the conveyor.'

'Hey forget the time to wake,
the structure is bastardised,
its no structure, break the wrist of the punishing hand,
I'm gone, you too?'


Companionship the greatest asset alone,
it filler every thought, conscious and not,
how grand a time to find a tangible reality.

First light had been the dissolution of the staple form,
the usual plastic bottle living had turned the stomach,
in the eyes of the other they had seen far greater substances than any man had made.

'Be again. Be real!'

It was ignorance of their very own type,
it drew the blood as it boiled from its infant state,
an ideology beyond the accepted had grown,
so strong that by now it was lost to evaporation.

Set rail, adrift from any other, they were gone for it all,
they had cast and turning was not for them.
Brutal in its meaning, life had switched roles,
abandonment was not foreign it was born for them.

So with seasons becoming one and the same,
they had embarked on calling it all their own name,
it was to be damp, cold, wild no more,
winter for sure, but spring eternal for them,
winter was forever gone,
it was discern spring,
and they were its sole inhabitants, one and two alone.

And oh how the taste of the air was so fresh,
gone had the stale tone if repeat living,
had the crashing of intricate glass upon glass,
of energy laden surrender,
lonely no more,
two had chanced the turnand they bound, wounds open,
headlong into the cavity of the woundrous few.

Lookey grandsons lookey, benitch rand hungel!

Comments · 4

Page 1 of 1

  • Rob McCorquodale said...

    This is a very experimental piece. A long poem about youth, escape, finding your place. Two young boys denounce the world of the old and set out to taste the new.

    • Posted 7 years ago
  • Tyler Ford said...

    I really like it. A lot of strong imagery and feelings that seem super relatable. I saw your site. I'd call it indecent exposure--doesn't do your talent justice. I'd read a book authored by you.

    • Posted 7 years ago
  • Rob McCorquodale said...

    @Tyler Ford Thanks! Yeah my blogs just bits and bobs. Haven't got any of my decent stuff up, its more a place just to keep bits.
    I'll try and get the other parts of this up soon.

    • Posted 7 years ago
  • Tyler Ford said...

    I understand that one. Probably, I've got 6 blogs, 4 Twitter accounts, 2 Instagram accounts, and a partridge in a pear tree. You know, for in case I lose my notebooks. Tons of eggs in almost as many baskets.

    • Posted 7 years ago