The Clown of all glory

(A eulogy for Herbert Moonslot)

Some people in St Ives don’t believe Moondust existed I wrote this for them. Chris

As a dense evening sunset looms out on my generation, and an ensign flag is lowered by flower child soldiers, singing, “all you need is love,” I go to a strange dark railway station that once existed on a ancient Cornish line, here my thoughts echo amid the silence of deadly dreams, once pursued.  And I see you, yes you, the clown of all glory explode into being, and exhale your infectious laughter, and suddenly, the cold silence is no more, and a kaleidoscope of colour comes back to the world!  I find myself on the floor laughing tears, especially for those who now doubt that you ever existed!  You old rascal! You played the cards with utter perfection; you had them in the palm of you hand, even the night before you retired to Davy Jones’s locker, no one guessed that you would have the last laugh amid heart break, and a thousand sorrows, where the wild wonderful blood of youth is shed.  I survived (God knows why?) to exist in this icehouse of mumbling, with TV lizards with vending machine mouths.

You played out the secret of time and pointed to the walls of the impossible and said, “Piece of cake!’ Now as I go crawling on cut glass to Hells substitute, I see the lights on cemetery road and hear the choirs of maggots singing with perfect pitch to the sky’s mysterious glass, what are they singing? It is this,” That mad bastard you knew is here at the gates where youth and laughter go!”

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