Lennon

Lennon

Maybe he was always going to come,
shooting love bullets
from the love-gun,
imagined drama cameras focusing on
his detaching shadows
before CCTV was even a thing.

His face made stone,
a petrified mouth, hissing: phoney,
beaten-up Catcher in the Rye,
an autographed Double Fantasy
gripped tight to his lead-lined chest.

But the facts are these:
for some time,
all four of them had been in decline,
records in the bargain bins
of Woolworths, Boots, and Smiths.
Supplanted, some would say,
by Anarchy in the UK,
London Calling, The Police, and Sting—
which is not a bad thing.

Aged 18, shook awake
from a distant dream,
of muddy fields in Matlock, Derbyshire—
they’re well past flintlocks,
bespattered men from Sheffield,
his father smelling of cordite,
cartridges, and shot.

A thick ear if you forgot
to carry your shotgun uncocked,
or walked ahead of the beaters.
Baying dogs flushing pheasants to flight—
here’s a left, and a right, goodnight.

Sticky, syrupy beer
in plate-glass tankards for afters,
pipes, cigarettes, and laughter,
the thick smoke clinging to rafters.

Then, a rude awakening:
"He’s dead, he’s dead,
they shot the fucker,
in the chest, he won’t live."

The day drags in a daze,
while the DJ plays
what had, until today,
been some forgotten curiosities.

And in that moment, you know
you won’t forgive.

It flashes forever before your eyes—
the arguments growing up,
good from bad,
did drugs really open the mind?
If you experimented,
what would you find?
Surely love is really all you need.

Planting Johnny Appleseeds.

Maybe he was always going to come
and watch a father oiling his gun.

McCartney

 McCartney

 

Not a chance meeting –

they sat across a table

arranged by his son

who forgot his I D,

had to run, did one,

left his father and his boss

to their lager, reminiscing.

 

Two old dads,

bonding over this soft lad

in a shared love of McCartney.

And soon, the top song?

The best LP? Band on the Run,

or maybe Venus and Mars,

strange to think

how years had passed

since they first toured London Town,

flipped Wings at the Speed of Sound.

Spin it on. Don’t stop.

 

The boss, wistful, grins –

because, he’s seeing things,

a father who took his son

to watch the maestro play.

 

Knew one who mullocked heroes,

mocked Lineker, Robson,

scoffed and sneered

at Gazza’s tears.

No time for long haired queers.

 

So, is it wrong

to feel for someone, never met?

Or trust the words of one

you wish you could forget?

Pick

Pick

 

Grandma often told me, ‘Don’t pick.’

‘If you knit your brows and scowl,

those lines will mark you, not now

but later and forever.’ She was right.

But I’d still pick. Bites, lumps, ticks,

between toes, up the nose,

pulled strong hairs that flourish there

and uprooted with a sharp stab.

She’d always say, ‘Be a good lad,

don’t scratch because it’ll never heal,

I know those scars will mark you.’

For life it seems. Rash, you might say,

always picking the wrong things.

Of course, I miss her terribly - you do,

all her wisdom that turned out true.

78

 

78

 

It’s just one of those compilation videos,

you get them on YouTube, don’t you?

50 bestselling singles,1978. Not radio,

that’s gone, but remember tuning in

back then? To scratchy tunes of alien,

ethereal whining, haunting airwaves,

wondering how anyone might be saved.

Each tune carrying, clings to its back

something best forgotten - bootstraps,

kicked across concrete floors to strains

of Abba’s ‘The Name of the Game’,

‘Rat Trap’ or ‘I Can’t Stand the Rain’,

a last year of ‘Saturday Night Fever,

‘Grease’, ‘Star Wars’ just been released,

owning ‘The Boy from New York City’,

wishing to be there, somewhere else,

or if time would learn to defend itself.

How some of that music overlapped,

became tunnels into future days

bearing song into the 80s and far away.

Watching from anywhere but here,

remembers a house, back in 1974,

behind a wood-stained wainscoted door,

unknown staircase to an upper floor,

for young minds, this secret passage

tumbled, from pages of any Enid Blyton.

Ascending through darkness saw there

a suite of decorated rooms, now bare

of any fancy flourishes, soft furnishings.

Just hard clapboard, but laid with care,

across most drafty rafters and cladding.

Rumours of servants, of days long gone;

remnants of a bell system to summon,

discovered in a kitchen, by the range.

Had it always been there; was it bought?

Time flares, it lingers in your thoughts,

this tall cabinet, doors opening outwards,

upon which sits a grubby felt turntable,

no amps, no speakers, no electric cables

spring driven, a fistful of brass needles

and within, a multitude of acetates at 78.

Being brittle, they would easily break,

slip from fingers, hard discs would chip

but each held a promise of something.

Can’t remember now how it was broken,

and four years on, 78 had spoken

in lyrics that muttered concepts of fear,

all that was bad living in a final year.

Cards

Cards

 

Dobson’s never one to speculate,

but always thinks he acts too late—

if he acts at all—at that which might appall.

 

He grows weary; it’s all too much,

seen it before too many times,

maybe doubts it’s even a crime.

 

Did you read about cankers, ears,

something rotting, lying in state,

or was it something lying in wait?

Too late.

 

Breathe and you’re dead.

Don’t say what you really think—

smile instead.

 

After all, they’ve sent many a soul packing.

They call themselves cards,

but something’s lacking—maybe hearts.

 

Enough spades to dig graves,

enough clubs to cudgel the brave,

foolhardy diamonds in the rough.

 

He knows how they dealt

the cards themselves,

built houses from stabbed backs,

marked the deck,

shuffled the pack.

 

Advancing one step up a pyramid,

built from cardboard edge to edge,

like ladders reaching

feathered crows’ nests—

trees swaying over toxic seas,

praying they don’t tumble.

 

Now Dobson knows

he shouldn’t grumble

at leaders who grope and blindly fumble,

 

hoping if they chuck enough mud,

some might stick before it crumbles.

Knows he must not tip his hand—

make a stand,

self-preservation.

 

So he shrugs.

In those poker faces,

he’s seen blood.

Simon

Simon Sometimes

 

Sometimes, Simon, an epiphany strikes

in flashes that feel not wrong not right,

replaced a leaking roof at great cost

with one that leaked - and all was lost.

Some years ago when we all took flight,

you remember that? It's sink or swim,

that’s what profits were muttering

at the time - you'll jump or be pushed,

financial matters - they weren't flush,

quick sand and corkscrews of decline;

you scratch my back, I’ll scratch mine

too – now fuck off with the lot of you.

Of course, they offered up kickbacks,

recompense for shipping all that flack,

bunged a bit of cash to tide us over

as we struck out for new shores solo,

forever after out and out betrayed,

so much hate for those who stayed,

called out rats who skippered the boat

gave elbows the slip, stayed afloat,

or so it seemed. Ten years since then

have slipped; I’ve picked up my pen

five hundred times or maybe more,

to set out thoughts, to settle scores

and yet today, in revelations fair,

I cannot find it in my heart to care.

Kept no friends from yesteryears

and won’t hear from anyone anymore:

I find that good. Of Angel, what of her?

Each day I look into my lover’s eyes,

sweet bird of paradox, surprise, surprise;

John said, we crave no other company,

finding more strength in mutuality

that wasn’t there before. Learnt much:

new thoughts, new skills, deft touch

on fretboard and plucked steel strings,

I had forgot that I knew how to sing,

and sweetness such melody brings.

My friend, all that dissonance now chimes;

it’s good to see you, Simon, sometimes.

Bankrupt

 

Bankrupt

 

What does it take to get ailing patients

on their feet?

More than just icing, however sweet,

no cakes topped with chocolate, vanilla,

or that buttery, artificial lemon mulch

will do the trick. It will make you sick.

Sticks tongues, pastes palates with glue guns,

coats your mouth’s roof, rots your gums:

please, extract our teeth before cancer comes,

and sugar kills, anyway, doesn’t it?

Her cakes are hollow - well, everything is.

Behold that old duffer, making his splash

across today’s sickly front pages,

why, he’s been having it off for ages,

piling up his trashed Himalayas of cash,

now visiting hospitals and some might hope

he’s racing towards the finish line.

So, what’s the tale of the tape?

Most likely some sort of financial crisis,

a black hole, a Max Headroom,

an event horizon to swallow their dole,

smash and grab and take a handful off

the lazy ones who lie in bed and cough,

and just because the lady loves Milk Tray.

After all, when they do come out to play

it's on one leg, hobbling about with metal sticks,

and since Covid they’ve been on the sick.

She will never play fast and loose. Here’s truth,

why not slash foreign aid to pay for bombs,

disinter acetates of war songs,

and put some boots on foreign ground?

But, before you can help others,

why, you must surely help yourself,

and many are happy to do so.

While across the pond and overseas

greater minds diagnose disease,

watch her sinking to her knees,

perceive her needs and lick at greedy lips,

applaud Brexit and her sinking ships,

recall how once they paid in pounds and shillings,

and bid Godspeed to coalitions of the willing.