The Punk Poet

An evening with the Punk Poet
. . . John Cooper Clarke.
 A National Treasure …
if Bedlam was a nation.


Fleeing Chicken Town, evidently


. . . with Hugo Race , me ,


. . . and assorted culprits from the Wreckery.


Profoundly, the ‘punk poet’
asks for a coat.
So Hugo raced to offer his shirt.
As the seeker searches for a light,
the High Lipster thanked Hugo
with a solemn benediction ;
“May your Kingdom
. . . be in Armageddon”.
Knowing that the ‘punk poet’
had just spent ten years
in an open-necked shirt,
I pretended not to listen.
Plus my coat was Irish linen!


Some came for communion.


Some for enlightenment.


Some came to worship.


Others came to learn . . . . and admire his tan.


And we all chipped in with an
urgent blood transfusion.

God bless you John Cooper Clarke
Stay strong … keep on keeping on.

Photos: david redpath © 2018

3 thoughts on “The Punk Poet”

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