It’s a bit of a pull running up from Maida Vale
to Saint John’s Wood but my legs feel no pain.
Back then I had corded limbs
that could run on the liquid fuel
of feckless youth.
Running shoes push spirited blood
up into a glowing muscular brawn.
Speeding past Abbey Road studios
listening to Warren Zevon
hammering a piano, his hair flowing,
the music coming together with werewolf howls.
Mind and body unwinding like a clockwork ******.
A woman with a pink headband
rests on a pavement bench.
She has also been running. I sit at her feet,
she pets my long hairy ears.
my lolling tongue slurping her hand,
but I must leap away to bay at many moons
until age gnaws away the very marrow
of these my last dog-days.
Categories:
maida, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Somewhere in Maida Vale
A penthouse trendy flat
Somehow I’ve wound up here
Getting daggers from the cat
My wraps still in my pocket
I dare not take it out
I’ll just sit here all paranoid
And kill myself with snout
Actors, models, Djs
They’re all mooching around
Kissing on both cheeks
A cab home’s twenty pound
Just can’t seem to blend in
The conversation’s weird
White people with dreadlocks
And silly goatee beards
Once again the gear
Is in the driving seat
It’s took me out all night
I won’t admit defeat
She’s beautiful the dark haired girl
She don’t fit in like me
If only my jaw’d stop rotating
I’d ask her home with me
Better check on my mate Charlie
He’s waiting in the loo
After this I’m going home
Two fat lines, one, two
That’s better, that’s the stuff
Now I’m blending in
I’ve gotta kick that f 'ing cat
No beer left, only gin
Shall I make a phone call
Shall I get more gear
This lot will give me sixty quids
Coke in Maida Vale is dear
The dark haired tart
She’s bang on me
She smiles from ear to ear
Oh she’s coming towards me
D’you know who’s got any gear ?
Categories:
maida, life, social, visionary, dark,
Form: Verse