Chris Hunt
Stagecoach
So here the tracks are linear
in curved space, a road movie
before the routes diverge.
A speck like tumbleweed adheres
the tumour on a dancing pane –
we’re somewhere else, of course.
Out of the perfect parallax
a Ford appears, clouds dust behind.
Who’s at the wheel? Behind the lens
sparks drive straight into mind, a desert
with Crusaders out of time.
Gunslinger, Digger and Wayne at the bar
a slug in one hand and six in the other -
‘Just tell that fine white Templar
he better not cross me, hell no’....
and all the while in the interior land
the glowing hole is growing.
Then deep in resentment’s dustbowl hurtles
one stray, insidious, can’t-stay idea:
you name your ride, fuel and feel its
leopardskin caress – but the junkyard tin
still blows its gasket on the
remotest stretch of road. Hear me,
my brothers in arms: where’s Lil,
is she powdering those parts we spy on
in unadmitted dreams? But the clanking knight
hits roadstop, out of horsepower, and fades out
to re-materialise within the saloon,
Back and White in hand.
‘Hey Joe, how you do that trick?’
‘Just passing through, my friends.’
And the three feel a chill
slide from gullet into gut as he shows them.
I’m not in here, not any more,
and watching from my privilege discern
a rocking in the deep, as fabric fumbles
in the warp and the reasonless
clicks in. Looking for first cause,
but it stays shadowy behind the names
and flickering shafts of dust.
The trails smell of stagecoach,
but the fumes rise to betray.
That tin can man from the time machine
who shimmers when you ask him
how he moves and who he is
invades internal plains,
and makes the senses reel.
That tease of notion, not seen
so perfectly when knuckling dirt
out of your cornea, is caught
for sure on the false screen.
She’s gone too far this time.
And Lil just segues out of bedroom
into bar and by the 3 amigos quick to grin
and past their understanding
into the waiting car of the shining knight.
The particles coalesce like oncogenes
in the lurid air between, attracted moths
in the clean room, clean atmosphere
of unclean living. Then shaking the slough off
the desperate trio saddle too late,
their Colts aiming to make empirical
spaghetti out of that invader’s mail –
but he’s gone again with only
spangled specks of shavings and horseshit
where metal heels had been.
And Lil’s left shaking, ‘shucks,’
she interposes, ‘but I never got to feel
the heat of his exhaust.’
John, you understand enough
in your canvas chair by the roadside,
Panaflex and tracks colluding
as the hero rides alone.
They go again for close-up but
the lenses pick up dust and scratch
the eyeball of the dream.
So here the tracks are linear
in curved space, a road movie
before the routes diverge.
A speck like tumbleweed adheres
the tumour on a dancing pane –
we’re somewhere else, of course.
Out of the perfect parallax
a Ford appears, clouds dust behind.
Who’s at the wheel? Behind the lens
sparks drive straight into mind, a desert
with Crusaders out of time.
Gunslinger, Digger and Wayne at the bar
a slug in one hand and six in the other -
‘Just tell that fine white Templar
he better not cross me, hell no’....
and all the while in the interior land
the glowing hole is growing.
Then deep in resentment’s dustbowl hurtles
one stray, insidious, can’t-stay idea:
you name your ride, fuel and feel its
leopardskin caress – but the junkyard tin
still blows its gasket on the
remotest stretch of road. Hear me,
my brothers in arms: where’s Lil,
is she powdering those parts we spy on
in unadmitted dreams? But the clanking knight
hits roadstop, out of horsepower, and fades out
to re-materialise within the saloon,
Back and White in hand.
‘Hey Joe, how you do that trick?’
‘Just passing through, my friends.’
And the three feel a chill
slide from gullet into gut as he shows them.
I’m not in here, not any more,
and watching from my privilege discern
a rocking in the deep, as fabric fumbles
in the warp and the reasonless
clicks in. Looking for first cause,
but it stays shadowy behind the names
and flickering shafts of dust.
The trails smell of stagecoach,
but the fumes rise to betray.
That tin can man from the time machine
who shimmers when you ask him
how he moves and who he is
invades internal plains,
and makes the senses reel.
That tease of notion, not seen
so perfectly when knuckling dirt
out of your cornea, is caught
for sure on the false screen.
She’s gone too far this time.
And Lil just segues out of bedroom
into bar and by the 3 amigos quick to grin
and past their understanding
into the waiting car of the shining knight.
The particles coalesce like oncogenes
in the lurid air between, attracted moths
in the clean room, clean atmosphere
of unclean living. Then shaking the slough off
the desperate trio saddle too late,
their Colts aiming to make empirical
spaghetti out of that invader’s mail –
but he’s gone again with only
spangled specks of shavings and horseshit
where metal heels had been.
And Lil’s left shaking, ‘shucks,’
she interposes, ‘but I never got to feel
the heat of his exhaust.’
John, you understand enough
in your canvas chair by the roadside,
Panaflex and tracks colluding
as the hero rides alone.
They go again for close-up but
the lenses pick up dust and scratch
the eyeball of the dream.
© Copyright Chris Hunt 2019
Chris Hunt read English at Jesus College Cambridge, where he came under the influence of JH Prynne, running the Blue Room and Suspension poetry groups and co-editing Blueprint poetry magazine. In the 1970s and 80s his work appeared in numerous magazines and three volumes of his poems were published by small presses. In 1979 he joined BBC Television, moving in 1984 to produce and direct The South Bank Show and in 1988 founding his own production company, in which he still makes films. Work he has produced or directed has won over 50 awards, including four Emmys and two Baftas. He returned to writing after a gap of many years in 2012. He was a contributor to the original 1980 print issue of Molly Bloom and his work has appeared since in online issues 1, 2 and 6.