Poetry

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Introduction to One Sun Drunk Day

The following versified pieces have been taken from a variety of sources, mainly notebooks and pieces of scrap paper dating from the mid 1970s onwards before being versified at various times.
“Wicked Cahoots” is included in the experimental memoir “Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child”, which exists in two versions, one being a straight autobiography, the other, a mildly fictionalised one inasmuch as all the names have been changed. It’s an adaptation of a passage from an unfinished story written sometime in the mid 1970s, and centring on a boyhood friend of mine from Bedford Park in West London.
“The Athlete, the Poet and the Reprobate” was composed in a bare few minutes from notes from an unfinished story or novel almost certainly made in the mid to late 1970s.
“One Sun Drunk Day He Said” was dashed off using some kind of artistic apologia from about 1976 as its model, and barely altered since.
“The Woodville Hall Soul Boys” was recently versified for inclusion in the experimental memoir “Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child”, although the original was penned in around 1979, while I was a student at the famous Guildhall School of Music and Drama in central London. It was an unfinished short story centring on my experiences of the sporadic discos held at the titular Woodville Hall, situated in the London suburb of Gravesend in Kent in 1977 at a time when the Punk and Soul Boy movements were at their height, and effectively coalesced in the shape of its fantastical clientele.
“Spark of Youth Long Gone” is a poetic testament to youthful disillusion, its setting a village in Southern Europe, almost certainly in 1979. Much of it has been reproduced verbatim, although it’s been heavily sanitised, as in the original version, the sense of despair was even more excessive, and I confess it shocks me to be confronted with it more than thirty years after it was put to paper. After all, what did I have to be depressed about? I can only suggest that no matter how richly we are blessed in an earthly sense, we are empty until the Holy Spirit lives within us. At the same time, one can’t ever discount the affectation of deep melancholia which was a defining characteristic of mine prior to my becoming a Christian.
The second section was probably around about the same time, although on a different scrap altogether.
“Nineteen Eighty Tell Me” has been reproduced more or less as it was originally scrawled in a red “Silvine” memo book in the very summer of 1980, almost certainly as I was waiting backstage to go on as Mustardseed during the London run of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at the famous Old Vic theatre when Timothy West was serving as Artistic Director.
“Some Perverse Will” was written around 1980, and has barely been altered since. To some degree it serves as an indicator of the unsanctified condition of my soul, although it shouldn’t be taken too seriously as such, given my tendency to romanticize and idealize my life as one supposedly lived on the edge as some kind of accursed poet.
“Gallant Festivities” is another piece specially prepared for “Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child”, this time from notes made in the early 1980s on sundry scraps of scrap paper, although this is from the fictionalized version, and therefore all names have been changed.
“London as the Lieu” was based on a novel I wrote in 1987 with a hero named Francis Phoenix who was partly based on myself, although subsequently destroyed, but for a few vestiges. It was cobbled together in about ten minutes, and nothing contained within it actually occurred. It’s entirely, risibly fictional.
"The Wanderer of Golders Green" was still another piece forged a few years ago for inclusion in “Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child”. It reflects what was a long-standing obsession on my part with romantic weltschmerz - literally world pain - and should not be taken too seriously as such.
That said, mention must be made of the intense saturnine melancholy that was making more and more inroads into my naturally sanguine temperament, and at nearly 30 I still wasn't famous, and may have been drinking as heavily as I was partly as a means of coping with this painful fact. What is certain is that from the age of 27, alcohol became more indispensable to me than ever before.
This fact becomes pre-eminently obvious with “Lone Birthday Boy Dancing”, the final “Rescue” piece rescued from informal diary entries, in this case notes made the day after a drunken birthday…possibly celebrated on the 8th of October 1991, or a year earlier; or later.
While these first ten relics stem from my pre-Christian life and hopefully provide some kind of insight into my spiritual condition prior to coming to faith, the final four are exclusively post-conversion pieces, having been based on songs of mine, but slightly altered so as to provide them with a poetical sheen.

Wicked Cahoots

When he made
his first personal appearance
in the dirty alley
on someone else's rusty bike,
screaming along
in a cloud of dust
it rendered us all
speechless and motionless.
But I was amazed
that despite his grey-faced surliness,
he was very affable with us...
the bully with a naive
and sentimental heart.
He was so happy
to hear that I liked his dad
or that my mum liked him
and he was welcome
to come to tea
with us at five twenty five...
Our "adventures" were spectacular:
chasing after other bikesters,
screaming at the top
of our lungs
into blocks of flats
and then running
as our echoed waves of terror
blended with incoherent threats...
"I'll call the Police, I'll..."
Wicked cahoots.

The Athlete, the Poet and the Reprobate

I can’t decide she said,
Whether you’re an aesthete
Or an athlete
A poet or a reprobate.

Even when I’m a lout,
I’m an aesthete, he answered,
I lure, rather than seek.

That’s true, so why do you
Need to dress up?

Like Ronald Firbank,
I suffer from a need
To give an outward show
Of my significance.

His lifestyle is an uncanny
Parallel
To my own young manhood

I alienated people
Through a crippling shyness
Which I disguised
With my violently idiosyncratic

Behaviour, wore cosmetics
And wrote novels
That reflected the luxurious
Lifestyle of a bygone age.

The sensation
Of never quite belonging
Lingered about me always
That’s why
I became an actor.

One Sun Drunk Day (He Said)

Emotions war against sense
And his mind remains
A pot pourri
And thoughts in his head
When he lies in his bed
Would make Dorian Gray
Appear pristine
He wishes to moralize
On a corrupt example
Yet from the wicked cup
He hath supped a sample.

He appears to think in extremes
He is beau-laid and realist
Whose inspiration stems from his dreams.
“Life is a beautiful strain for me”,
One sun-drunk day he said
But I pray I say what my soul needs to
Before the heavens decide me dead.
But his mind is a disorderly drawer
Full of confused categorizations
He has that Scott Fitzgerald illness
For dates, times, rhymes and quotations.
“I have a clear flowing mind
but I cannot foretell
When the clogging black clouds will arrive
For they will arrive
Live with the love, then bear the pain
Recurrent like the monsoon rain.

He is afraid of happiness
For the inevitable despair that must follow it
Afraid of happiness
For its cruel impermanence
Like Zola, the seasons in life, for him
Are inevitable.
“All artists,” he says, “are at once alike and unique
One day, it’s clear,
The next, hazy, like a beery vision
The fulfilment that they seek.
Misty dreams of sweet-smelling roses
And swaying streams
Bring him chills and pains in his soul and being.
He lives his life through a melancholy tragedy
And has an ever-yearning mind.

The Woodville Hall Soul Boys

Soon after I'd paid
My sixty
0r seventy pence,
I found myself
In what I thought
Was a miniature London.
I saw girls
In chandelier earrings,
In stiletto heels,
Wearing evening
Dresses,
Which contrasted with
The bizarre
Hair colours
They favoured:
Jet black
0r bleach blonde,
With flashes of
Red, Purple
0r green.
Some wore large
Bow ties,
Others unceremoniously
Hanged
Their school ties
Round their
Necks.
Eye make-up
Was exaggerated.
The boys all had
Short hair,
Wore mohair sweaters,
Thin ties,
Baggy,
Peg-top trousers
And winklepicker shoes.
A band playing
Raw street rock
At a frantic speed
Came to a sudden,
Violent climax...
Melodic, rhythmic,
Highly danceable
Soul music
Was now beginning
To fill the hall,
With another group
0f short-haired youths...
Smoother, more elegant,
Less menacing
Than the previous ones.
These well-dressed
Street boys
Wore well-pressed pegs
0f red or blue...
They pirouetted
And posed...
Pirouetted and posed.

Spark of Youth Long Gone

Two days ago, I decided
To realise
Some cherished memories
Of my beloved little ,
So I drank about five glasses
Of Monteviejo
In preparation for
The rediscovery of
The town of my heart.
Firstly, I sat in the bar
Where I used to meet
All my friends,
And was assaulted
By the prices of the drinks
And the volume of the music.
I searched the place
With my eyes
For the innocence and laughter
Of yesteryear, but in vain…
The young people are forced
Into tight little groups
So atmosphere
Is ponderous and alienating.
Where is the fun?
The wild and foolish socialising?
The comic local music?
All gone. I could cry.
Oh, these nerves, this living death.
I am so full of fear,
Lethargy and fury
I can hardly function.
There’s a lack of innocence
Of simplicity
And is this change
From deep within me?
The freedom,
The spark of youth
Is gone
Or have I merely lost it?
Sophistication spoils
The city ravages
Senses refined
By knowledge and wine.

Nineteen Eighty Tell Me

Nineteen Eighty
Tell me
Where are you?
Tell me
What are you
Trying to be?
This week
You’re 1963
And there’s
Even
Talk of a rebirth
Of ‘67
But that’s next week
Nineteen Eighty
When will you
Be mine?
A little bit ‘59
I’ll not share you
With a Beatnik
Take a rest
After exertions
Punk revolutions
Before our
Old friend
Sweet nostalgia
Goes round the bend.

Some Perverse Will

I’m a restless man
I am never
Still
I’m always spurred on
By some perverse
Will
The grass is never
Green
No peace here
To find
Some demon
Of motion’s
At work within my
Mind
No bed is too soft
That I won’t
Abandon
It’s sweet calm
And comfort
For a softer
One
I’m a restless man
I am never
Still
I’m always spurred on
By some perverse will.

Gallant Festivities

It was my evening, that’s
For sure
“It’s your aura…”
For sure -
At last I’m good
At something
“Spot the Equity card…”
“When are you going
To be a superstar?”
Said Sara
That seemed to be
The question
On everyone’s lips.
At last, at last, at last
I’m good at something…

And so the party…Zoe
called me...I listened…
…To her problems…
References
To my “innocent face”…
Linda said:
“Sally seems Elusive
But is in fact,
Accessible;
You’re the opposite -
You give to everyone
But are incapable
Of giving in particular.”

Madeleine was comparing me
To June Miller…
Descriptions by Nin:
“She does not dare
To be herself…”
Everything I’d always
Wanted to be, I now am…
“…She lives
On the reflections
Of herself in the eyes
Of others...
There is no June
To grasp and know…”

I kept getting up to dance…
Sally said: “I’m afraid…
You’re inscrutable
You’re not just
Blasé,
Are you?”
I spoke
Of the spells of calm
And the hysterical
Reactions
Psychic Exhaustion
Then anxious elation…

London as the Lieu

Until recently, I had the impression
Of decaying
Along with the moral standards
Of contemporary Europe
With London as the lieu
To which all autoroutes lead.

In my room, I was surrounded
By debris
Of my existence,
Lacking the will even to clear
The carpet, whose colour,
Incidentally I came to forget.

I ceaselessly tampered with my hair,
Growing it long,
Having it cropped , hennaing it red,
Dyeing it blue-black, bleaching it near-white;
It fell out in bunches,
Dessicated and exhausted.

My face grew sallow and haggard,
With bloodshot, inflamed,
Glazed, blue-ringed orbs
And bitten, bloated, ravaged lips.
My body lost its athletic aspect
And became shapeless and emaciated.

The Wanderer of Golders Green

I awake each morning
With fresh hope
And tranquility
I might go for a saunter
Down quiet London backstreets
Soon my aimlessness
Depresses me,
And I realise
I'd been deceiving myself
As to my ability
To relax as others do.

I decided on a Special B
Before the eve.
I bought a lager
At the Bar
And chatted to Gaye.
Then Ray
Bought me another.
I appreciated the fact
That he remembered
The time he,
His gal Chris,
And Rory Downed
An entire Bottle
Of Jack Daniels
In a Paris-bound train.

A tanned cat
Bought me a (large) half,
Then another half.
My fatal eyes
Are my downfall.
I drank yet another half...

My head was spinning
When it hit the pillow
I awoke
With a terrible headache
Around one o'clock.
I prayed it would depart.

I slowly got dressed.
I was as chatty as ever
Before the exam...
French/English translation.
Periodically I put my face
In my hands or groaned
Or sighed -
My stomach
was burning me inside.

I finished my paper
In 1 hour and a half.
As I walked out
I caught various eyes
Amanda’s, Trudy’s (quizzical) etc…
I went to bed…
Slept ‘till five…
Read O’Neill until 7ish...
Got dressed
And strolled down
To Golders Green,
In order to relive
A few memories.
I sang to myself -
A few memories
Flashed into my mind,
But not as many
as I'd have liked -
It wasn't the same.
It wasn't the same.

Singing songs brought
Voluptuous tears.
I snuck into McDonalds
Where I felt At home,
Anonymous, alone.
I bought a few things,
Toothpaste and pick,
Chocolate, yoghurts,
Sweets, cigarettes
And fruit juice.
Took a sentimental journey
Back to Powis Gardens,
Richness
And intensity,
Romantic
And attractive…
Sad, suspicious and strange.
I sat up until 3am,
Reading O’Neill
Or writing (inept) poetry.
Awoke at 10,
But didn’t leave
My room till 12,
Lost my way
To Swiss Cottage,
Lost my happiness.
Oh so conscious
Of my failure
And after a fashion,
Enjoying this knowledge.

Lone Birthday Boy Dancing

Yesterday for my birthday,
I started off
with a bottle of wine...
I took the train
into town...
I had half a bitter
at the Cafe de Piaf
in Waterloo...
I went to work
for a couple of hours or so;
I had a pint after work;
I went for an audition;
after the audition,
I had another pint
and a half;
I had another half,
before meeting my mates,
for my b'day celebrations;
we had a pint together;
we went into
the night club,
where we had champagne
(I had three glasses);
I had a further
glass of vino,
by which time,
I was so gone
that I drew an audience
of about thirty
by performing a solo
dancing spot
in the middle
of the disco floor...
We all piled off to the pub
after that,
where I had another drink
(I can't remember
what it was)...
I then made my way home,
took the bus from Surbiton,
but ended up
in the wilds of Surrey;
I took another bus home,
and watched some telly
and had something to eat
before crashing out...
I really, really enjoyed
the eve, but today,
I've been walking around
I've had only one drink today,
an early morning
restorative effort;
I spent the day working,
then I went to a bookshop,
where, like a monk,
I go for a day's
drying out session...
Drying out is really awful;
you jump at every shadow;
you feel dizzy,
you notice everything;
very often,
I don't follow through…

All Through the Ages

All through the ages
I have faithfully waited
Now I'm ready
For you
To make this dream come true
All through the ages
I have faithfully prayed
You'd come and rescue me
You've been
So far away
All through the ages
I have faithfully kept
Myself so pure for you
Except a crush or two...
All through the ages
I have faithfully waited
Now I'm ready
For you
To make this dream come true.

Time Travel

Time Travel’s set me free
And sunk its
Sharpest hooks in me

In disguise as a young man
In the city
But the bright young lights
No longer belong to me
I’m not a London man
I’m just a carbon copy
Doing some travelling

Time Travel’s set me free
And sunk its
Sharpest hooks in me

Seeing faces that I knew in ‘77
When I was young
And in love with London town
But please don’t ask me
Where those thirty years
Have flown to
They’ve just gone travelling.

Time Travel’s set me free
And sunk its
Sharpest hooks in me

Lady, though your sweetness
Is such a blessing
Tender angel
Please don’t lose your heart to me
For I’m a visitor
From a distant generation
Doing some travelling

Time Travel’s set me free
And sunk its
Sharpest hooks in me

Toilers of the Sea

Come away with me
To toil upon the sea
Come away and see
How sweet sea life can be
I’ll sing “Bonny Dundee”
Off the coast of Old Guernsey
You and me,
Are toilers of the sea, toilers of the sea.

Help me put that wrecked
Romance away from me
Help me understand
How it was lost at sea
It wasn’t destined to be
She belonged to another not me
So I let them be
Whatever will be will be
For the salty old likes of me
For toilers of the sea, for toilers of the sea.

I can stand it if you’re
There with me
For the solitary life at sea
Is enough to make you sea crazy
With the whales and gulls for company

We can ponder on
The ocean’s mysteries
I’ll unveil a few of
My old sea stories
You’ll see how kind a tar can be
I promise you’ll be safe with me
When we’re out at sea
As toilers of the sea, as toilers of the sea.

A Song of Summer

Faith, where’s your smile
Don’t be a melancholy child
Can’t you see
That the summer’s come?

Stuck in your room
With your winter curtains drawn
While the suburbs
Are all bathed in sun

No more winter time lows
Only joy now because
We can shake off the blues
Faith, there’s no time to lose

We can go for a cruise
Down the Thames
Or down the Ouse
Or just snooze under summer’s sun

Find a village green
Watch some cricket,
Take some tea, as you please
Summer’s made for fun

Get some sweet summer air
Feel the breeze in your hair
Forget that sad old affair
He’s not worth all the tears

Cast you cares on me
I can set you free
Don’t let me wait too long
Summer will soon be gone

No more winter time lows
Only joy now because
We can shake off the blues
Faith, there’s no time to lose

We can go for a cruise
Down the Thames
Or down the Ouse
Or just snooze under summer’s sun.

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