The Punk Poet

An evening with the Punk Poet
. . . John Cooper Clarke.

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A National Treasure
. . . if Bedlam was a nation 😎

Fleeing Chicken Town, evidently,

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with Hugo Race, myself, and . . .

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some culprits from the Wreckery.
Nick Cave had fled the country.
Edward the Axeman had also gone
missing, after breaking a string.

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Most profoundly,
the Punk Poet
asked for a coat.
So Hugo hurriedly
offered his shirt.
As the Seeker
searched for a light
the High Lipster
blessed 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!

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Some came for communion

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Some came for enlightenment

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Some came to worship

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Others came to learn, and
gaze upon that Essex tan βšͺ

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Then we all chipped in for
an urgent blood transfusion.

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

Words and Images;
David B. Redpath Β© 2018 – 2020

58 thoughts on “The Punk Poet”

      1. oh, yeah, i remember you guys now, you used to sit behind me in teacup pinky articulation class and throw spit wads in my hair! lol amazing work i’m in love with it πŸ™‚

        Liked by 2 people

      1. I understand
        David you’ve led an interesting life
        A book I would buy in any store
        I like your Irish linen coat!
        I think you made the right decision to remain silent
        I did notice you found your signature sunglasses πŸ•Ά
        Not before we saw a rare glimpse of your eyes πŸ‘€
        Wait…is that weird that I noticed 😳
        I may have examined too close

        Liked by 1 person

      1. Love this immensely,
        The tributaries intensely,
        Contributing to rivers of rust and bone,
        While photos and poems continue to be home,
        In the body of your mind and truth.

        Liked by 4 people

      2. Thanks … intensely πŸ™
        Alas, the past is a foreign country.
        Where the fine young cannibals of
        Desolation Row did things with no
        thought for tomorrow.
        Home is where the low tide reaps
        what the high times have sowed.

        “Good friends we have,
        oh, good friends we’ve lost
        along the way.
        In this great future,
        you can’t forget your past
        So dry your tears, I seh.”
        ~ Bob Marley

        Liked by 1 person

    1. Actually, It was an after the show
      get together. John Cooper-Clarke
      had just performed his Punk Poetry
      routine at an Infamous St. Kilda
      venue in Fitzroy Street, St. Kilda.
      And the Wreckery (the original
      Bad Seeds) were the support act.
      Hence the bleary eyed musos.
      When Nick Cave left Australia to
      make his mark overseas, the boys
      felt abandoned. But they reformed
      as the Wreckery, and got on with it 😎

      Liked by 1 person

    1. A trip down memory lane for me.
      But then, I always felt right at home
      roaming the Boulevard of broken
      dreams, down Desolation Row.
      I only ever saw a fun palace, till
      I got my prescription sunglasses 😎

      Liked by 1 person

  1. I really want that ghetto blaster
    so I can play my favourite mixed tapes! πŸ˜πŸ•Ά
    the curtains are pretty sweet also 😏🧑
    Love the photos David πŸ“ΈπŸ‘ŒπŸŽΆ

    Liked by 1 person

    1. If only I could remember 🎱
      where I left that ghetto blaster?
      It was loud enough to dismember,
      so perhaps it’s for the better
      … that I just can’t remember πŸ€”
      Glad you enjoyed the pics, Lia πŸ’›πŸ˜Ž

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Didn’t see this till now. Hugs. 😚
        God reuses the same mould many a time,
        Sometimes a-breaks it with its flow of fine wine. πŸ˜‡

        Liked by 1 person

    1. John Cooper Clarke was a school
      teacher for a decade, which goes
      a long way to explaining his eclectic
      poetry πŸ€” His poem, ‘Ten Years In
      An Open Necked Shirt’, recounts
      that stage of his life.

      Liked by 1 person

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