Only the Lonely

Rolling river. 

No data. No social media.

No streaming.

No contact with virtual worlds.

No credit. No calls. No texts.

No conversations with family or friends.

Just the bench. And lager, a roll-up

And the weather.

Talkin' All That Jazz

 

Miles, Mingus, Monk

Big band, Be-bop

Civil right funk

Art Blakeys’s snare

Hancock’s dream

Lift off – ascension

A love supreme.

Blue Note, Verve, Prestige

The Duke, Bird, Dizzy, me

Get on the soul train

With John Coltrane

To dark town Harlem scenes.

Trios, Quartets, Nonets

White plastic saxophone scream

Those trumpet tones

Whose voices blow

Pray for those in need

Harmoniously they sing

In unison if you please;

We must Let Freedom Ring!

We must Let Freedom Ring!

Earth Song

I met a pop kid from the streamed age
He sang: Two vast and trunkless legs of gold
Stand half sunk in the Thames. Near them on the bank,
A cracked, scarred mask stares, whose skin tone
And sculptured nose and smile of twisted command
Tell that its surgeon well those requests misheard
Which features still survive, stamped on this lifeless scene,
Amongst uniformed fragments, the gloved hand sparkles.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Michael Jackson, King of Pop:
Look on my back catalogue, the music , dance!'
Nothing beside remains, except self-indulgent decay
Of a once colossal work, timeless now overplayed,
The single and album pop charts disappear in a land far, far away.

Standards

Standing on the bonnet of a car. Like The Clash did. On a Volvo. Down the posh street. Where the doctors reside. And where the teachers live. Smoking fags like a military general smokes his victory cigar. Like the Clash did. Down the posh street. Standing on the bandstand on the park. Like The Jam did. Where the kids play. Where the dogs bark. Breaking bottles, throwing stones. Setting fires. Drinking lager like the dads in the pub do. On the bandstand, like the Jam did, down the park. Standing on the roof of Tesco. Like you’re the Pistols. Where your mum shops. Where your gran buys her pepper and crisps. Battering the air conditioners with metal bars. On the roof of Tesco. Where your mum shops. Where your gran buys her pepper and crisps.

And, oi, oi, oi, oi

And, when you are young

And, guns, guns, guns, guns on the roof.

But just who is it you really are?

With your standards

Standing on the drive outside your house. Like your dad did. In the morning. Down your street. Where your neighbours reside. And where your friends live. Needing a fag like a defeated union leader. Like your dad did. Down his street. Standing outside your garage. Where your kids play. Where your dog barks. Broken bottles, loose house bricks. Lager cans. Drunk just like you did. On the bandstand, when the Jam did, down the park. Your wife gets ready for work. The Tesco Metro.  It’s a Monday. After the weekend. You are off to work. You sell central heating systems. Fully fitted. Guaranteed. You have an issue. Your car’s been done over. By the rough kids. You didn’t hear it. You were sleeping in the back bedroom. Your insurance will shoot through the roof. You know this. On your drive. Stood with your kids. Your dog barking for you at your street.

And the dinner party address

And the new rich red, a claret, it should be Beaujolais

And matching cutlery, M&S, Waitrose finest.

Turn that racket down I said

Young ones they have no respect

Listen, I’m going out, going out, going out, going out.

Standing in the corridor of the hospital. Like you did. Your dad did. Trouble down your street. Where your neighbours reside. And where your friends live. Ambulances down your street. Unlike anyone in your family. Down their street. Standing on the bandstand on the park. Amphetamines. Booze. Cocktail. Your son did. Where the kids play. Where the dogs bark. Broken bottles. Loose stones. No fire except in the nostrils. Snorting powder like his mates did. On the bandstand, down the park. Leant on the bonnet of the car outside the hospital. Smoking fags like a naughty schoolboy. Regret is this. The hurt your own heat-stop rush. Feel it. Your wife is inside with your eldest. Stomach pumped. Life can never be the same. You know this. You gather your other kids in the car.

Death on The Stairs

The chauffeur reaches staircase altitude. Landing on the sticky lino floor.

An odour of wax hangs heavy in the lungs and nostrils.

Stripes hang in damp doom, stains conceal patterns, walls grieve,

The forced uncertainty compels urgent thought.

Get in, get the hell out of here.

Knock once. Knock twice. No answer. Knock again. Once more. The same.

Thoughts more. Knocks twice still further:                

Anyone in? I’m your driver. Fab Four meeting. Remember?

No response, the what to do situation.          

Fear the worst?

Eyes are directed to the letterbox. Taken down deep through the postman’s rabbit hole.

Of the second-floor, flat 4, bed-sitting-room. Noel Road, Islington, 1967, August 9^th,

Electric light on?                    

Seems unusual?

The top of a bald man’s head.           

Seems strange?

… A panic, a phone call later.

GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

Enter Detective Sergeant Harold Challenor arriving arm in arm with Truscott from the Yard:

… I’ve been on shift over one hundred hours, I’ve been at it non-stop.

I know. But how did…

Hush. Maverick detectives never reveal sauce.

Well, get you Detective Sergeant, I … well, if it’s gonna make you touchy ...

So know when to hush. Now please, let us both proceed.

Private eyes squint studious. Take notes. Take in the bedsit sight.

Two stools, two chairs, two single divan beds. A chessboard ceiling of pink and yellow.

A wall collage mind-blows them. Mythical beasts, Renaissance high art, the recognisable, unrecognisable, up against low-brow tabloid times.

Is this a walk-in art installation?

I believe it to be a theatre as an expression of the mind.

Two dead bodies floor and bed are discovered within the montage.  

Stomachs turn at the artist’s brush strokes, like a spilt tin of Morton’s Blackcurrant pie filling,

Look at this, a Renaissance crucifix pasted over a Union Jack.

There lies Orton, body still warm, under a faithful headstone.

Well check this, crossed horse legs. Ape body, Cro-Magnon head spliced with fresh blood.

Here lies Halliwell dead and cold, within his own gore memorial.

                                    Over here…look

Desk top. Red-grained leather binder. A diary. Accompanied by a note:

If you read his diary all will be explained

KH. PS. Especially the latter part

Take elementary logic, make elementary notes.

Blood hammer. Blood wall. Blood floor. PS. Really, and, especially the latter.

Scribble down never forgotten notes. One obviously murdered.

Nembutals and bottle, glass and grapefruit juice.

Scratch out the violent message. One evident suicide.

An apparition startles. Elevates up, up, up and in.

                                    And who might you be?

A Clean-up Mary scorn, horn rims, twin set, hair rinse, pearls, purse, and swine:

Why, I’m Edna Welthorpe, a friend of both the boys…

You can’t come in here. This is a crime scene. What is it you want?

…They’d shared everything except success you know…

Well murder and death has made them equal. Sorry, what's all this to you?

…Poor Ken. Always desperate to be heard, Lost in Joe, gone into his heart, suffocated in this bedsit wall of mixed up prison form art…

Overpowered by the others talent more like, couldn’t take the failure anymore …  Sorry, what is it you want? Who are you? What do you know? What is it you want?

…I’ll gonna report you. You rude bloody upstart. I'll write to the paper I will. You’ve started something now. You mark my words. This is not forgotten. Here today…

I want you to stop. I want you to leave. Now. If. You. Please.

…Ooh. Get you. Stop he says. Leave indeed. But I’ve already left love. If you were any kind of copper you would have guessed as much…