Four Transcendental Grandmothers
I had just got my hands
on the new ‘Sergeant Pepper’ album.
The four girls that lived above my flat
were notified by jungle drums.
Soon we were six, my pal Roger
with his blonde Mexican mustache
and shoulder length hair came over.
We sat around a portable record player,
passing the album cover around
and swaying to the music
filling the room with prayerful smoke.
Roger took Diane to her room.
Michelle took me behind the curtained alcove,
Isobel and Maggie got it on together.
By the time we had done with the music
we had long disbanded
the lonely hearts club band.
Roger died from the hole he had dug
in the London drug scene; he was living large
until the rains came in.
One grandmother lived long enough
to see Lennon shot,
one lived on to hear of Harrisons stabbing.
The last grandmother (ma belle),
she who broken heartedly adored Paul,
died listening to her signature tune.
I know this because the Maharishi Yogi
came to me in a dream.
He was seated transcendentally
on top of a multicolored Rolls Royce
surrounded by happy, singing, nubile,
naked grandmothers.
None of them looked old,
the girls were playing with children,
laughing, and just as cool as ever.
When I awoke, sad to tell,
the music had already walked away
on Cuban-heels and rubber souls.
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