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.
Some watch from
the wings;
others build
the stage, seed
the pitch, lead
the songs, feed
their passions,
do something
with a dream,
and let it breed.
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.