A Tired Night & Dead Tomorrow

A Tired Night: Memoirs

These two poems and thrown-in quote come from a fantastically fatigued night four or five years ago at Mr. Beaven's residence...

Mr. Jean Man

He now wears jeans,
Where there once was silk,
He deserted khaki,
In favour of denim,

He is Mr. Jean Man,
He wears whatever arouses him,
And owns a very fancy tie,

Mr. Casualoleon,
Mr. Spicy Chicken Breast,
He is Mr. Jean Man.

By Ashley Beaven


Excerpts

I don’t exactly rave,
Scrambled eggs for brains,
Electric isn’t everything,

The smell of cumin,
My lungs are all bad,
I think the chlorine fucked them up,

Pray to the butterfly,
The multicoloured butterfly,
Sheep of Iraq, that’s what the carpet is,

The best isn’t good enough,
It’s like he’s sending radioactive beams
Into my sanity, mindshredder,

Gone through tired,
Lost the bit of me that’s completely awake,
In a word he’s a fucking psycho,

I’m an arse-ist, arsetits,
Switches that got really dirty
And no one touches anymore.

- Collected from conversation by Daniel Bristow



“I don’t know what the point of living is when you are 40, but hopefully I’ll know when I get there.” – Ash Beaven

Dead Tomorrow

Tomorrow holds a lot in its hands; can I win the world over
With the whirlwind in the written word; taking matters on one’s own
Terms, unconditionally? Reply to me reciprocally; we have taken things
Too quickly; in trying to clarify, in trying to classify; we’ve taken them
Apart: a part of me is in a part of you, as is a part of you in me.
We haven’t consummated yet, a consummatum est, a Word,
Heard, from you, a signal of some truth; we should see where we
Could go, before we fear to tread; we’ll be dead tomorrow.