Poem: ‘Getting On’

Getting On

I wasn’t an ‘unresponsive on his bathroom floor’ case,
Or even a mysteriously ‘Paris apartment bathtub’ scrubbing waste.
Despite the certain uncontrollable tragedy,
‘Bullets in the back four times – New York’ it was not.
.
So Zaccheus sat in that sycamore tree,
With prior knowledge about the exodus of ’73.
And with a bang of the gong,
As a charged up warrior,
I was gone.
.
Her Purple Mini wasn’t quite a Cadilac.
G-L-O-R-I-A wasn’t quite Patti Boyd.
She ended the marriage, ended the band and her driving ended me.
But no one mentions her,
She was no Yoko.
.
But this is what I am,
Square Peg Sam, not the main man.
Jimi, Jim, Jones & Janis – they all hit the spot,
Two weeks off thirty has a certain ring to it,
But I’m not in the club.
.
What’s more I tried religion,
Just like Dad told me to,
Long before I was a child of the Marcsist revolution,
I sat looking up into his Soviet stubble,
As we tripped round London bends in lofty lorries,
He told me,
“Zion’s home for you son,
But don’t tell Ma.”
But I did,
She squeezed it out of me,
She didn’t want Jerusalem,
Cos she sold grapes
And pears in Berwick Street.
So I sat in a gentile’s grave.
.
“People are unfair with Sky plus in their hair-spray,
No longer content, with Star Wars in their browsers.
They want an Acorah-approved sighting.”
So said the master of the ghoulish game – Tiger Memphis-Flash.
He says he makes an appearance at least once every six months,
To please true fans.
.
So at the turn of the 21st century,
Boy I tried it out,
But once again Feld failed,
I stuck around,
I like it here,
By the might of a tragical noon
I sit.
.
So, come by Great Darkgate Street in Aber.
We sell beauty, household goods and medicines, alongside a range of fine fragrances here;
Glam products, if you like.
You’ll recognise me,
I’m still all Absolom in Barnet,
But it’s getting a bit thin at the back.
Debbie the store manager insists on the polo neck uniform,
So my ‘faux gay space alien’ image is slightly dampened,
But I wear face glitter on casual Fridays.
.
Come on in and read my name tag,
No one bats an eyelid,
They just assume it’s the Welsh spelling.
.
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