Harlem needs
its heroes too, cats that won't cop
out and won't be nothin but
badass. You're uptown, kickin on a
door on a ghetto backlot, a door into
consciousness and style. You're gonna
have to close it yourself.
When this world
is too full of goalhangers,
how much we cherish
those who burst from midfield
with the ball, a humble
juggernaut; a touch, SHOOT!
Unlikely, unstoppable.
The dark
Ministry wheezes, breathless with
mediocrity. The streets are
full of yobs swaggering into
conscious print. And yet, one
stroke of a pen and this, all
of this, is pricked.
These are
godless times; actors wade
through blood for men and
their lenses. I came home to
a dark house to find you
lighting candles to me and my
teenage horror.
Here’s to a
life in the dark: the sky you
fell from; the unlit lanes and
assignations under a
war-torn moon; the family who
never guessed how you set
Europe ablaze.
I am sat with
you in the boozer, nursing a
black-and-tan, sodden with song,
looking for little victories, stolen notes of
pleasure that come only once every
Preston Guild.
Penalty! Down
you go then up you get to
smash in from the spot, chest bulging
like a keg of lager, sky blue blood,
face in the mud, one foul away
from a fistfight.
Can we march
together? You lead and we will
follow. We number 100 and more,
marching to a place with no bombs, no
cells, the struggle won, where the only
thing mutually assured is love.
You blister in
the bed of memory, the world
actors create; real, whole, a plotting of
dreams. Your character sings from
gramophones of the soul as your skin
shrivels, cracks, falls away to reveal the
role beneath the role.
Open Channel D;
a yearning message beams in from a
million sighing teens to their agent of
cool. Escape is not an option; the mission
calls. Medium atomic weights are available:
he has been reassigned.
Wham! Bam! Le
son du punk vu à travers un
filtre dayglo, fanfaronner
sans cracher, pogo sans polémique,
anarchie caricaturale,
et pourtant, et pourtant, ça
plane pour moi. Wham! Bam! The
sound of punk seen through a
dayglo filter, swagger without
spit, pogo without
polemic, cartoon anarchy, and yet, and
yet, it's ok by me.
There is a
backwater of music for bearded
folk dreamers, troubadours in
hush puppies, cheerful
whistlers in the prows of boats that
are always leaving but never reach
their destination.
Your name on
the marquee, almost
certainly misspelt. Your face on
the screen, almost
certainly misplaced. Your life on
the credits, almost
certainly misremembered.