Friday, March 02, 2007

Not a soft touch on the second-hand
bicycle front, he lashed out

got a proper form of two wheeled transport
that set him right back.

Unable to pay rent he was, once again
living in the shed on a building site

at the quarry near Clondalkin,
where he wandered lonely in a cloud

of clinical depression, oozing a downer
on all whose path he crossed. The fold up

cycle that rides like a joke, a visual pollutant
sore thumb of the high street, scenic vandal

drew jeers and derision from pedestrians
on to his person undertaking the act

of looking a prat on two wheels a ten
year old wouldn't be seen dead owning.


Oracular mop top

“yeah yeah yeah.”

Gods of body and soul understand,
hear they say a Mersey beat lit the fuse

of revolution. Imagined a planetary
magical mystery cult and let it be

in the heart of Speke and Woolton.
John, Paul, Aunty Mimi, mothers Mary

and Julia, circuiting until peace
throughout the universe is all across

the watchtower, protected by her silver
spoon. Imagine Freddie his dad

doing Al Jolson impressions at Newcastle
Road, in the bedsit with Julia playing a banjo

not the John who got mobbed
all round Earth, smoking pot with Lucy

in the sky, purple hearts, Mind Games
diamonds with Yoko lying in bed, Rock

and Roll, two anti-war protestors, Walls
and Bridges. Three albums from the lost

weekend John spent with Harry Nillson
David, Sir Elton, Ringo and John

after the white period with his personal
assistant and lover May Fung, the sweet

bird of paradox. Didn’t anybody tell her
didn’t anybody see

Yoko’s on the phone to Linda
and Linda’s on the phone in the Bag

O’Nails, '68 and called again when Sir
Paul needed sorting out with a bag

of weed for the start of the tour in Tokyo
1980. It was a cold and wet January

day, Sir Paul was saying the stuff's
not his, giving it some of that rock

and roll music, any old time the King
never knew his twin nor John

that his little sister Ingrid existed.


What chance had Jim Morrison
of watching Star Wars after Burbank ’67

when he sung the original lyrics of Light
My Fire and was never invited back on

by Ed Sullivan ever again.


Elvis went mad
at the decline of rock ‘n roll decorum

guess he couldn’t get much higher
than the standard that sent Jim to Paris

in March ’71, ostensibly to recuperate.
But Jim lost weight, shaved off his beard

and died three months later, in July
an overdose, some say - heroin

others natural causes. 27, the same
as Bolan in his prime when children

of the revolution rode white swans
wore hot pants and drove a Capri

to Walthamstow dogs listening to Elvis
on the radio in the final stage

of weight gain, as Meat Loaf
roared into Top of the Pops on a chopper

like a bat out of hell. Maybe he can talk
all night, the cat who sang two

out of three aint bad, but in a game
of the world where the champions

are the biggest dandies rocking round
Wavertree clock tower, John went that

one step beyond at an out
of the way occasion and will dispose

the new wave of chart invaders
the annual surge of return.

Mods coming back, Madnes ruling
top spot all summer miming baggy

trousers in the middle of the street
our house.

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