dead end street .. .
There’s a crack up in the ceiling
and the kitchen sink is leaking’
~ Ray Davies
.. .. ..
the day closed
when we ran out of path
down by the cherry orchard
reading Chekov
Sibelius, Mondigliani
keepers of bees and hunny
psychotherapy philosophy
the books of R.D.Laing
write what you know
not what you think
Frankie Shaeffer tells the truth
kicks up humanistic stink
different points of view
intellectuals in Bermondsey
or some such other place
Forest Hill when we hung out
the Old Kent Road, Notting Hill
Camden Town, Islington
Shepherd’s Bush – proles live
like struggling insects
who joined an honest queue
for bread or maybe to live better
but when were we free
or ever could we be
when things go wrong
sadistic leaders rise
Nazi Germany in around ’33
possibly a clichê
Timothy Leary, Uri Gagarin
the ultimate Mata Hari
names where I grew up
in another country
francs and lira, japanese yen
do ya’ ken John Peel
or are you Arthur Scargill
when socialism was a thing
the British pound plummets
which is colloquial, metaphoric
not Shakespeare in the park
deja-vu – a new synchronicity
hyper-pseudo sensitivity
are you animal, fish or whore
some people fair
far better at deception
Sally-ann around on Fridays
we had never had it so good
taught to think of others
Biafrans as our brothers
bitter beer, sardines on toast
no queers or untold sadness
faith slightly infinitesimal
psycosomatically brittle
then came Billy Butlin
coca cola and the bingo
no one seemed to notice me
nor ever heard the springs go
Tommy Steele, his smile
Joe Brown and his bruvvers’
mother’s little helpers
Cathy’s up the junction
cockneyed optimism
where did it come from
and when did it depart
on the horse or in the cart
can you feel the rythm
of the four-piece drum
use a plectrum or a thumb
we were all so young
plastic mac wonder
the labour exchange
coffee-table nostalgia
stole our cul-de-sac thunder
©edenbraytoday07.08.2023
edenbray ☢︎ - a BEAT POET 
BEAT
beat .. .
beat, plageurism while writing a sonnet
Sometimes I think I came too late to writing
I should have come first of all
to listen is to spell
to see to speak
to tell all, a rat-fink
when the amber sun sinks in the pan
and the warm good smell of bacon cooking
phenols of clear scotch whiskey
sparkle up your nose
the aurora of a pretty lady
whose smile lifts your Dantė thoughts
of judgement, death and hell
pro-creation is the reason
a message in a bottle
a signature in sand
and all those damn fine cliches
I learned as a kid
with grandparents
a Kerouac without a road
they grew cabbage and leek
and profound mundanity
no tin roof except the jangling stars
Orion, Jupiter and the bats flying
I felt the rain on my face, cold wind in my eyes
I came too late to writing
Whitman had already been and Keates and Kelly
and every name becomes a name-drop
a dead phoenix rotting
a minotaur without a head
crumpled up da Vinci drawings
lost under the bed
I once bought a Djembe
from an African in Italy
at a market in a northern town
he talked while he ate
spat bread crumbs in my face
his sweated brow was full of animus
richness of history, character
I considered him entirely great
we haggled
I paid him 20 euros for his trouble
I bought my African drum home
should I leave it by your gate?
©edenbraytoday11.09.2023
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