Somewhere
on the fretboard
is a note
only you could play,
hidden
At the gates
a queue is forming;
angels in black,
sideburns, gloved hands,
fingers pointing
straight at you,
screaming
Bernard! Shane! Alvin!
Read about Alvin Stardust here
Dinner is served
in an unreal house.
At the table
no-one speaks.
Somewhere else;
a place is set.
Another family waits
for you
to come through.
Read about Lynda Bellingham here
Time, master of
tides,
turns down the
guitar,
the organ;
leaves just bass,
drums,
and the mellow
string section
of your voice.
Read about John Holt here
My dad did impressions of you
- thank yuh kahndly -
in fake Carolinian.
Though we didn't know
where you were from
we know where you're going.
Read about George Hamilton IV here
The guards bark out
the roll-call. You
are missing, the
last tunnel you dug
coming up beyond
Last lines never come easy,
so put down your pens,
plectrums, piano lids,
and listen to the golden silence,
the son that ain't gonna shine
anymore.
Read about Bob Crewe here
You asked Saint Peter to let you in;
No.
You asked to see the man in charge;
No.
He asked if you had changed your ways;
No. No. Never. No.
Read more about Ian Paisley here