Oh, at long last,

I’ve found you,

Only the news

Ain’t so good,

Seems you found love,

You seem happy,

And so fulfilled,

But did I think that

You’d be lonely

For all those years?

Oh, what was I

Looking for?

You tried so hard,

But I never thawed,

Seems you found love,

I’m so unhappy,

Cos I never knew

What I found and,

What I lost and,

How much I’d miss you.

Yesterday for my birthday,

I started off

with a bottle of wine...

I took the train

into town...

I had half a bitter

at the Café de Piaf

in Waterloo...

I went to work

for a couple of hours or so;

I had a pint after work;

I went for an audition;

after the audition,

I had another pint

and a half;

I had another half,

before meeting my mates,

for my b’day celebrations;

we had a pint together;

we went into

the night club,

where we had champagne

(I had three glasses);

I had a further

glass of vino,

by which time,

I was so gone

that I drew an audience

of about thirty

by performing a solo

dancing spot

in the middle

of the disco floor...

We all piled off to the pub

after that,

where I had another drink

(I can’t remember

what it was)...

I then made my way home,

took the bus from Surbiton,

but ended up

in the wilds of Surrey;

I took another bus home,

and watched some telly,

and had something to eat

before crashing out...

I really, really enjoyed

the eve, but today,

I’ve been walking around

like a zomb;

I’ve had only one drink today,

an early morning

restorative effort;

I spent the day working,

then I went to a bookshop,

where, like a monk,

I go for a day’s

drying out session...

Drying out is really awful;

you jump at every shadow;

you feel dizzy,

you notice everything;

very often,

I don’t follow through.

Dear, I haven’t been in touch

For a long time.

Sorry.

The last time I saw you

Was in St. Christopher’s Place.

It was a lovely evening...

When I knocked that chair over.

I am sorry.

Since then,

I’ve had not a few accidents

Of that kind.

Just three days ago,

I slipped out in a garden

At a friend’s house...

And keeled over, not once,

Not twice, but three times,

Like a log...clonking my nut

So violently that people heard me

In the sitting room.

What’s more,

I can’t remember a single sentence

Spoken all evening. The problem is…

I love, not just those

I knew back then,

But those

Who were young

Back then,

But who’ve since

Come to grief, who,

Having soared so high,

Found the

Consequent descent

Too dreadful to bear,

With my youth itself,

Which was only

Yesterday,

No, even less time,

A mere moment ago,

How could

Such a short space

Of time

Cause such devastation?

The legs started going,

kept awake with water,

breathing,

arrogantly telling myself

I’d stay straight.

Drank gin and wine,

went out,

tried to buy more,

unshaven,

filthy white shorts,

lost, rolling on lawn,

somehow got home.

Monday, waiting for offie,

looked like death,

fear in eyes

of passers-by,

waiting for drink,

drink relieved me.

drank all day,

next day,

double brandy

just about settled me,

drank some more,

thought constantly

I’d collapse;

then what?

Fit? Coronary?

Insanity? Worse?

Took a Heminevrin,

paced the house

all night,

weak legs,

lack of feeling

in extremities,

drank water

to keep the

life functions going,

played devotional music,

dedicated my life

to God,

prayed constantly,

renounced evil.

Next day,

two Valiums

helped me sleep.

By eve,

I started to feel better.

I made my choice,

and oblivion has receded,

and shall disappear.

‘Temper your enthusiasm,’

She said,

’The extremes of your reactions;

You should have

A more conventional frame

On which to hang

Your unconventionality.’

‘Don’t push people,’

She said,

‘You make yourself vulnerable.’

Was I was hiding

Some sad

Dark secret from the world?

She told me not to rhapsodise,

That it would be difficult,

Impossible, perhaps,

For me to harness my dynamism.

The tone of my work,

She said,

Is often a little dubious.

She said

She thought

That there was something wrong.

As if I was hiding

Some sad

Dark secret from the world.

There once was a long vanished England;

Of well-spoken presenters

Of the BBC Home Service,

Light Service, and Children’s Favourites,

Of coppers and tanners, and ten bob notes;

And jolly shopkeepers, and window cleaners.

I remember my beloved Wolf Cub pack,

How I loved those Wednesday evenings,

The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,

The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair

During the mass meetings,

The solemnity of my enrolment,

Being helped up a tree by an older boy,

Baloo, or Kim, or someone,

To win my Athletics badge,

Winning my first star, my two year badge,

And my swimming badge

With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.

When he made

his first personal appearance

in the dirty alley

on someone else’s rusty bike,

screaming along

in a cloud of dust,

it rendered us all

speechless and motionless.

But I was amazed

that despite his grey-faced surliness,

he was very affable with us...

the bully with a naive

and sentimental heart.

He was so happy

to hear that I liked his dad,

or that my mum liked him,

and he was welcome

to come to tea

with us at five twenty five...

Our adventures were spectacular:

chasing after other bikesters,

screaming at the top

of our lungs

into blocks of flats,

and then running

as our echoed waves of terror

blended with incoherent threats...

“I’ll call the Police, I’ll...”

Wicked cahoots.

Soon after I’d paid

My sixty

Or seventy pence,

I found myself

In what I thought

Was a miniature London.

I saw girls

In chandelier earrings,

In stiletto heels,

Wearing evening

Dresses,

Which contrasted with

The bizarre

Hair colours

They favoured:

Jet black

Or bleach blonde,

With flashes of

Red, purple

Or green.

Some wore large

Bow ties,

Others unceremoniously

Hanged

Their school ties

Round their

Necks.

Eye make-up

Was exaggerated.

The boys all had

Short hair,

Wore mohair sweaters,

Thin ties,

Baggy,

Peg-top trousers

And winklepicker shoes.

A band playing

Raw street rock

At a frantic speed

Came to a sudden,

Violent climax...

Melodic, rhythmic,

Highly danceable

Soul music

Was now beginning

To fill the hall,

With another group

Of short-haired youths...

Smoother, more elegant,

Less menacing

Than the previous ones.

These well-dressed

Street boys

Wore well-pressed pegs

Of red or blue...

They pirouetted

And posed...

Pirouetted and posed.

:

My Paris begins with

Those early days

As a conscious flâneur;

I recall the couple

On the Metro,

When I was still innocent

Of its labyrinthine complexities;

Slim pretty white girl,

Clad head to toe

In new blue denim,

Wistfully smiling,

While her muscular black beau

Stared straight through me

With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;

And then one of them spoke

(Almost in a whisper):

‘Qu’est-ce que t’en penses?’

Until it dawned on me,

Yes, the slender young Parisienne

With the distant desirous eyes

Was no less male than I.

Being screamed at in Pigalle,

And then howled at again

By some kind

Of wild-eyed wanderer

Who suggested I seek out

The Bois de Boulogne

For what he saw as my destiny;

Cash squandered

On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,

Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,

Paperback books

By Symbolist poets,

Second hand volumes

By Trakl and Delève,

Metro taken to Montparnasse,

Where I slowly sipped

A demi-blonde

In one of those brasseries,

Such as those

Immortalised by Brassai

In the famous photographs.

And where an ancient loup de mer

In a naval officer’s cap,

His table bestrewn

With empty wine bottles

And cigarette butts,

Repeatedly screeched ‘Phillippe!’

Until a patient young bartender

With patent leather hair,

And an affable half-smile,

Filled his wine glass

Quite to the brim,

With a mock-obsequious:

“Voila, mon Captaine!”

Losing Rory’s address,

Scrawled on a page

Of Musset's Confession,

Walking the length

And breadth of the Rue St. Denis;

‘What an artists paradise,’

Comme on m’a écrit une fois.