<<
I think you just did write a poem, that's beautiful.
best,
Dawn.
>>
Thanks, Dawn, but it's not there yet.
I've at last got the title -- "Cowboy Saviours on the Street / (for the
memory of Veronica Forrest-Thomson)"
... and I'm used to attracting flack over poems, but *before* you even write
them ...
:-(
I don't think there's much more that can be thrown at me over terming James
Baxter a cowboy saviour, but VFT ...
Also where I want the poem to start from is the Seekers' 90s reunion concert
...
Somewhere, that the Hugh Cornwell clone of the major Stranglers' tribute
band works as a bouncer at the Loughborough branch of Wilcos, and I've never
managed to work up the bottle to ask him for an autograph ...
My Street was Denniston --
there are things you don't say,
like gang-handed and weaponed-up.
Saturday night's eleven year old, outside the Palais watching with
fascination as the hard men went at it with belts ...
How to explain, in a time and a place where and when weaponed-up means a 9
mm, that there was a time, ever such a long time ago, after open razors and
before bayonets, when weaponed-up meant sharpened studs punched into the
*inside* of a belt, and a single-edged razorblade tucked into the fold of a
tie?
Explain how you know ...
A simpler and more innocent time.
The Dear Green Place.
Rebel Angels Down on a Visit.
Jimmy Boyle ...
(The only poems worth writing tell stories or lamant the sad dead ... )
Problems, problems -- as the Lone Star Texas Ranger pointed out to me
backchannel, my use of the term "cowboy" is severely Brit.
<sigh>
Back to the drawing-board, to reverse-engineer a bat rising from the ruins
of Roswell.
The black economy, the good wear white hats, the Grey World ...
And Chris Boyce is dead.
Another one I never met, and my mind seems currently inhabiting some strange
alternative reality where the icepick didn't terminate Trotsky with extreme
prejudice and Loughborough is ruled by a fiction fraction/faction of the
4thI.
As if.
The Man With Too Many Names
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