You reminded me of Paul Weller,
somewhere in London
on a winter’s morning,
petrol burning his nose,
pigeons shitting everywhere
and the lovers back to back, haunting those park benches.
Your company van matched his acoustic guitar,
capturing a cold 6am
like a 19th century colonial-type, crunching through Serengeti dust,
revving engine, the punch of gasoline, the dawn’s screeching chorus,
and that final slamming door, last Tuesday.
I’ll miss you Graham, that fire you used to breathe
keeping Winter in its cage,
as I turned over and surrendered to Morpheus
somewhere in London
on a winter’s morning,
petrol burning his nose,
pigeons shitting everywhere
and the lovers back to back, haunting those park benches.
Your company van matched his acoustic guitar,
capturing a cold 6am
like a 19th century colonial-type, crunching through Serengeti dust,
revving engine, the punch of gasoline, the dawn’s screeching chorus,
and that final slamming door, last Tuesday.
I’ll miss you Graham, that fire you used to breathe
keeping Winter in its cage,
as I turned over and surrendered to Morpheus
John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.
He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.
No comments:
Post a Comment