12 Bar blues.

We fought

She left

guitily later I searched

the gold

the Star

Cock & Bottle

Ground Floor

Finches

Castle

Mau Mau

Muse 
Elgin

the Union

cow
The Westbourne

Of course I had a drink in each.

Now I've got the 12 bar blues & can't remember who I'm looking for.

The muse has gone
Leaving me nothing but a tin opener
And a can of worms.

Opening the can
I take up the fattest, juiciest .
Snag it on my gaudy hook.

Trawl it.

Trawl it through the bars
Trawl it through the clubs
Trawl it through the pubs
Of Notting Hill
Trot it down Portobello road
Tesco disco
The Globe
Finches
Electric
Ravenous
Mau Mau
The Star
The Gold

The Cow

Westbourne

Grand Union

The Earl

angling for the Muse

Of course I had a drink in each of them

Now I've got the 12 bar blues

And I can't remember what I'm looking for.

Rock n Roll poetry revisited. (For Amy Winehouse)

An old poem rewritten for Amy Winehouse.

They say poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy. Go buddy go

Write about a rock star

write about her vices

write about her falls from grace

her personal crises

but write about a rock star

and dress her up in sequins

for rock n roll ain't a world

in which Jo meek wins.

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

write about he cocaine

talk about her cocaine

talk about her cocaine

talk about her...

Oh buddy push the needle on

and write about a rock star

sing it when you're done

sing it to a techno beat

badum badum badum

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

but not about her rehab

no don't write about her rehab

NO NO NO

write about her drinking

and write about her gear

because happy stories of the cure

are not what we want to hear

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll.

(Guitar solo)

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll

Write another poem buddy go buddy go

Write about a rock star

then kill her when you're done

kill her with a fatal dose

her vomit or a gun

but kill that fucking rock star

don't let her get too old

that way you'll get to number one

before the body's cold

Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll.

Pigeon post.

This is a very early rough draft. Just notes really.

A song for last year's wife.

This spring

a pigeon scratched a rough nest

on the ledge outside the kitchen window

The ledge where you grew parsley and mint

and the scarlet geranium you nurtured from a cutting

taken on a drunken walk home

from outside the neighbours house.

The pots have gone

the herbs long dead

the geranium fell to the basement last winter

leaving space for the rough nest

in which a pigeon laid a solitary egg

It was not a good nest

I scolded the bird for such slapdash househusbandry

but we watched over that egg

as I fed her seeds and crumbs

and fretted with her.

On the third day

a jackdaw took the egg

there was nothing I nor the pigeon could do

a jackdaw took the egg

save make accusative stares

a jackdaw took the egg

I did not take the egg and I could not save the egg

she did not take the egg and could not save the egg.

but I think we equally cared for that egg

until we decided to blame each other for it's loss.

I have not seen the pigeon since and I have let the pigeon go

but the egg still haunts me.

The blue dress.

He gave her red things. 
Trinkets. 
He had no money but she would not accept the one thing of value he could give her.

She gave him blue things.
Trinkets.
She had money but she could not give him the one thing that he valued.

Until.

She called him.
'Where are you?'
'At home'.
'I am at the shop down the road, you know the one we talked about this morning.

Come down here'.

He walked.
Across the road from the shop he saw her as she came out of the door,
beckoning,
smiling,
dancing.

In a blue silk dress.

He knew.

he crossed the road.
The Red bus was doing 30 when it hit him.

He died happy.

Which is more than could be said for her.