The green grass of Star meadow, now imprisoned under thick concrete. Leamington spa on a windy autumn day long ago, you, the clown of all glory, like some strange spirit on the lonely street, trying to make sense of two people crashing into a 1960’s dream.
Black P.V.C. overcoat, long black hair. Torn between life and despair, on a road going nowhere, but, with a thousand suns and a million drums accompanying the wanderers, on the speechless seeking paths of Dylan’s forever young. Famous last words on the back road glory trails of youth’s young wisdom, a half moon smiling on Stoke road.
Hedgehogs and Nightingales now mock yesterday. All life shrinks into a dullness that comprehends nothing but a cold north wind coming. And my heart cries out to a mystery ‘Something,’ that breaks hearts and leaves us desolate and full of such memories, memories that kill the soul and dance down damnations, stagnations, alleys. I curse the years they took from us, when they let us play into the arms of maturity hookers, and the, “Cannons of Christianity,” thundered into our young true loves ‘deep devotion!’
God, will they ever know what they did when those Cannons blew us to pieces and drained the wild honey of our youth? And now at days end, the sirens of yesteryear explode into agonies twilight, and I the helpless dreamer still dare to dream, and will dream, till senility’s last heartbeat.