He had a way
with a pen,
my friend
the part-time
con artist, full-
time drunkard
with twinkles
in his eyes
like stardust,
and wrinkles
from laughter
as loud as
a clap of thunder,
and it was
really a wonder
to watch him draw
his last breath
with such depth
like an outline
of a shadow,
a sinkhole
in the shade
on the side
of a dark ridge.

Between the divide
You just can't get agreement
In this time and age

If I lose track of the track
play the Beatles,
'Get back'
I'm back on the right track
a dip through the light shack
where I once belonged.

'Lola'
was the King and Queen
sat on turquoise
a harlequin,
chinks in his armour
'Kinks'
in her hair
it's always
'Dead end street'
somewhere.

I lose the plot
quite a lot these days,
the music plays
in stereo
can't get away
nowhere to go
trapped by the ' slow hand'  
in
Clapton's Pond.