We're all on a road to somewhere.
I was staying at
the Surfer’s Paradise
Hawaiian Motel
a Wild Turkey in hand
slowly defrosting
in a cyclonic swell
when the news broke
… the King of Rock
had just fatally fell
He could rhythm & blues
the whole jail house block
from a cell
at the Heartbreak Hotel
And then
in his blue suade shoes
gospel all the way
to the edge of reality
Heaven’s pearly gates
now blown straight to hell
Mosquitoes and neon buzzing
as the No Vacancy sign
flickers on
at the Surfer’s Paradise
Hawaiian motel
Six long weeks
roaming the dry crust
of a sun burnt wilderness.
Nothing but rocks and red dust.
The hot desert winds
that flay the skin
… now murmuring,
with words broken
of souls lost and forsaken.
Best I finally surrender
upon this alien terrain
the haunted trauma
of a time I’ve tried in vain
. . . to never remember.
Utopia ~ by David B. Redpath
(acrylic on canvas) © 2018
An evening with the Punk Poet
. . . John Cooper Clarke.
Fleeing Chicken Town, evidently.
A National Treasure
. . . if Bedlam was a nation
