Thursday, 22 May 2025

Michael B. Tretow - d. May 20th 2025

I heard unfashionable sounds
of youth - European doggerel.
Now I hear through your ears;
the joy of satin and sunshine,
the anguish of love gone cold,
the rustle of glitter falling on
the dancefloor of your dreams.

Barry Fantoni – d. May 20th 2025

So, farewell then E. J. Thribb.
‘So, farewell then’, that was your
catchphrase. Not very catchy,
though Keith’s mum liked it,
as did all your readers, who now
will not know when someone
has died. 

George Wendt – d. May 20th 2025

What are you having, Norm?
The worst day. Pour me a beer.
What’s the story, Norm?
Man orders beer. Repeat.
What’s going down, Norm?
We are. Six feet under.

Brian Glanville – d. May 16th 2025

When I had no poetry I learned it
from you; the game expressed
as form and image, its tactical
shifts like the turn of a sonnet,
its canon of artists and artisans
the ink of the pitch and the page.

Junior Byles – d. May 15th 2025

Two roads before you, Rasta:
to the left a twilit path, clouded
by dub and collie weed; right,
the road to consciousness, the
sweet harvest of your own voice.
Whichever you choose, both end here. 

Joe Don Baker – d. May 7th 2025

Playing ambiguity is hard;
it helps to have a face like
a side of bacon, a voice to
silence any room, a tough-guy
smile delivering a lethal dose
to anyone within ten yards.

Mike Peters – d. April 29th 2025

If it’s true that all art is theft
it’s smart to steal from the best:
Strummer’s stance, polemic,
power chords from punk’s cadaver,
hair by Bono, voice by Rod, but
fire, flesh and fight by dragons.

Philip Lowrie – d. April 25th 2025

You and I grew up in the rain,
in the conurbation of pathos
and humdrum, you playing your
scenes like they were my own
memories, those old friends
I have learned never to trust.










***This was the 1000th Otwituary***

Roy Thomas Baker – d. April 12th 2025

Yes, most of life is lo-fi; one take,
no effects, no overdubs, but still,
there are days where everything
sounds like you intended: 48-track,
big sound, no bum notes, producer
saying
Great, I think that’s the one.

David Thomas – d. April 23rd 2025

This was how we danced back then:
as if rehearsing the apocalypse,
arms flailing like we didn’t know if this
was punk or bebop, and all serenaded
by a man talking not to us but himself.

Monday, 21 April 2025

Barry Hoban – d. April 19th 2025

I saw a centaur on the road,
a mythical beast, half-man,
half-bike, from an age of
steel frames and iron men,
falling off the pace, swallowed
by the broom wagon of time.

 

Clodagh Rodgers – d. April 18th 2025

I fell across a hideaway
in a borderless continent,
saw you there in hot pants
and chiffon, swinging
and shaking, bouncing up
from the nostalgia slot
whenever love knocked.

Colin Berry – d. April 16th 2025

Too many stations on the dial:
Strasbourg, Stockholm, Hilversum.
I trawl exotic ether for the comfort,
of a friendly ident. Then, a voice
like the top of the milk, telling me
who and where I am: London calling. 

Read about Colin Berry here


Wink Martindale – d. April 15th 2025

I have a deck of my own; when
I see the Deuce I think of this life
and the next; the Trey for yesterday,
today and no tomorrow; the Seven
for the seven letters of ‘mawkish’.
And I know, because
I was that Otwituarist.

Paddy Higson – d. April 13th 2025

A nation sometimes kens itsel
by its ain faces in thi mirror:
thi girl fae thi schemes in thi
fitba strip; thi copper, dour as
a Glesca doonpour, thi Laird in
thir heilan' hame. We wha ken
oorsels ken yir unkent name. 

Jean Marsh – d. April 13th 2025

I was raised to life by
the surrogate screen,
its shifting cast lists
like a lost-and-found,
a repertory of upstairs lives
in my downstairs world.

Mike Berry – d. April 11th 2025

From the fallow fields
of outmoded comedy
to distant choruses
of mournful melody,
Ten Acres of fame
sometimes yields only
a modest harvest,
and sometimes
none at all.

Read about Mike Berry here

Max Romeo – d. April 11th 2025

They say the Devil came to you
in a dream, talking of Babylon,
forcing from you a song you
didn’t want to sing. Sing it now,
sing that Devil into outer space.

Robert McGinnis – d. March 10th 2025

All artists have stained fingers,
flecked with pale pigments
mixed from male fantasies.
I am no artist, and yet I know
that I am not a movie poster
but a novel, shortly to be pulped. 

Tuesday, 8 April 2025

Clem Burke – d. April 6th 2025

Sweat pools under your drum stool;
there's blood on the snare.
Every roll alternates hot and cool,
and every fill is a symphony.
Let every skin shudder,
let the backbeat sing one last time.