INSPIRATION
The midnight muse does not wait
For the lure of silver at someone’s gate
Nor the rattle of chains in rust-red splendour
As the moonlight beams on the night so tender.
The midnight muse has something strange to tell;
‘Silence is violence’
Say the damned in hell
To speak is to live not bound by chains
An ’empty silence’ is all that remains
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ARTIST
I must paint or die
I wake early
I meditate
God gives me strength to lead this double life
Milk! Please, I need warm milk
I must paint at first light
When the colours are not too bright.
What is Buddha,I overhear in disbelief
Then three pounds of flax, please
Is the paintbrush really mightier than the sword?
Did Gallipoli fall just because of a word?
Give me your fucking Giro
Before I shoot you with my Biro
WHO IS NEXT?
??? ??????? ????
Amy Winehouse 2011
Jeremy Michael Ward 2003
Sean McCabe 2000
Richey Edwards 1995
Kristen Pfaff 1994
Kurt Cobain 1994
Mia Zapata 1993
Pete De Freitas 1989
Jean-Michel Basquiat 1988
D Boon 1985
Chris Bell 1978
Pete Ham 1975
Dave Alexander 1975
Ron Pigpen Mckernan 1973
Linda Jones 1972
Jim Morrison 1971
Janis Joplin 1970
Jime Hendrix 1970
Alan Wilson 1970
Brian Jones 1969
Dickie Pride 1969
Rudy Lewis 1964
Jesse Belvin 1959
Robert Johnson 1938
OH, FOR THE DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES
Falling in love with a poet
May be the closest you will come to living forever
Be the wild card in his pack
In a world where lonely queens never say never
Go live in the desert rather than a fancy hotel
Eat with rusty cutlery, drink cider instead of Muscatel
Visit no mans land, but once only
Then come back and you will never feel lonely
Remember that underground city that once glowed
Red in the dark
Go limber up in hilly Montmartre
Then go barefoot in Gaudi Park
Dance with demons and devils on some remote island
Then go toss some cabers in the godless Scottish Highlands
All this you must do, while your poet’s mouth opens and closes
As you dance along some cobbled street singing
Oh, for the days of wine and roses.
I AM CHARLIE
I dreamt I saw Charlie last night
Alive as you and me
Charlie, I said, you’re surely dead
I never died says he
I never died says he
From Paris out to New Orleans
From Rheims to San Jose
The lousy bastards shot you dead
I never died says he
I never died says he
It takes more than guns to kill a man
Let freedom be the key
When working men stand up to them
That’s there you’ll find Charlie
I never died says he
I never died says he
(with apologies to Phil Ochs/Joe Hill)
SMOKING WITH JOE
Joe said it was rubbish
I agreed, but then he said –
No, I meant it was rubbishy.
What’s the difference?, I asked
But he didn’t reply.
I need a cigarette, he then said
Who is going to oblige?
They stunt your growth Joe,
I replied, measuring him casually
With my trained carpenter’s eye
Tall he was, a redwood among men
He could do with some stunting, I thought
Pulling a pack from my jacket pocket.
Here, take two, I said,
They’re very small
Do you know something? he said
When he had one going –
The other one stuck safely behind a rather large ear
If I had a pound for every fag I smoked
I’d be a very wealthy man.
OP’s you mean, I remarked.
OP’S, he looked insulted
I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole!.
MY G STRING IS BROKEN
We slept in a pension where I tuned my guitar
My G string had broke when she said ‘have you come far?’
From Wexford to Paris, I’m thinking, how far is that in the dark?
I suppose five hundred kilometres would be near the mark.
Then she reached over and twanged at another string
‘How long do you intend to mess about with that old thing?’
I felt like telling her ‘that old thing’ had aged better than she had
And its antecedents weren’t at all bad
But I just said ‘That thing was plucked by Elvis, I’ll have you know,
When he was bopping out Blue Suede Shoes all those yonks ago!’
This ‘thing’ didn’t feel quite finished when I read it again, so I revisited it overnight. I think it reads better now
MY G STRING IS BROKEN
We slept in a pension where I tuned my guitar
My G string had broke when she said ‘have you come far?’
From Wexford to Paris, I’m thinking, how far is that in the dark?
I suppose five hundred kilometres would be near the mark.
Then she reached over and twanged at another string
‘How long do you intend to mess about with that old thing?’
I felt like telling her ‘that old thing’ had aged better than she had
And its antecedents weren’t at all bad
But I just said ‘That thing was plucked by Elvis, I’ll have you know,
When he was bopping out Blue Suede Shoes all those yonks ago!’
This ‘thing’ didn’t feel quite finished when I read it again, so I revisited it overnight. I think it reads better now
I NEVER WALKED A MILE
I never walked a mile
Without thinking of you
I was always walking towards your smile
Towards your twinkling eyes so blue
I never dreamed a dream
Without seeing a vision of you
I was always the cat who got the cream
When I awoke and found my vision true
I never told a tale
That didn’t have you in it
My laughter as I recalled
Was at least three times every minute
And now that you are are gone
I find myself walking even more
My journey it will be long
Until I find that ?&@%*** stevedore.
ANOTHER CURE FOR WRITER’S BLOCK
Saying Zanzibar seven times
Very slowly
Is good for writer’s block
Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r, Z-a-n-z-i-b-a-r
Zzz-aa-nn-zzz-iiii—-
Fuck, fuck, fuck
My Writing Life 