i

poems from the basement:
..and who is to say what or whom
is beautiful..***..
well, moving on-

dead beggars and so on
(mostly, my poetry is an exercise
in memory-use it or..
i am not apologising..)

i was the last to see him alive
and we argued
living with the russians
around the fire and songs

from the gulag..he  was
found on the beach
by a friend who had his guitar
stolen by a hunch back dwarf from albania

i warned him-last time i saw him
he was on the bins..trying to get a stake together
(for a new guitar)so he could again play in the street,
he was pretty good..

ii

i was sat outside my tent
(amid the rubble)
when the police come  around

with his photograph-
you know him-he was purple
they were going to slap me

but laughed-i said i was going on
holiday, so might not be around
they wanted me to drop a dime,

as our american cousins say..
(do i look like a rat..)so i walked
for the border line..

iii

t, who knew everything,
said they got him-
he was the educated one-

(surprised me..)
it was a hairy old walk to
the border..

****** is not funny
anything can happen
no good running

casual like
i will be off then
a black sedan

followed
a few yards behind
i was not laughing..