14 May 2015
11 September 2018
I love poetry. Sometimes I write it too.
She wears ruby-red slippers
stolen from the fresh corpse of a pensioner,
clicks her heels with demands
and dares anyone to question her.
The villagers can do nothing but watch
the act in silence, gagged by the fear
of further violence.
Mothers hide their children
behind apron strings as lovers search in vain
for each other. Eyes glisten with terror,
and panic rises like the howl of a wolf
as a Nokia rings to cut through the horror.
The owner will not survive tomorrow.
Days later, ramblers
stumble across a murder of scarecrows.
Alarms are raised. Helicopters buzz like honeybees
overhead as sniffer dogs search the hedgerows
for clues. Somewhere over the rainbow
fields, a killer skulks through woodland,
hiding from the police and her conscience.
She finds a cabin and makes a sculpture of its contents.
She is foolish. Heartless. A craven bastard.
Social media is a pit of gossip and rumours.
Names are suggested and cursed
like cancerous tumours. Landlords are arrested
and put on trial by tabloids
as witnesses are pumped with drugs.
Meanwhile Dorothy lights a cigarette
and strokes her terrier,
fast asleep on the lion-skin rug.
The following people thank Tony Japanese for this post:Beatlebug, SgtPeppersBulldog, TangerineTrees
11 September 2018
When new generations study your life;
your art-college bride, your Japanese wife,
your mother, Aunt Mimi, Julian, Sean,
your existence from the day you were born.
The sadness behind your teenage trauma,
the madness, the mayhem, the endless drama;
the true meaning behind Instant Karma .
There are men who say they witnessed it all,
from your schoolboy pranks at Quarry Bank School,
the rise of the legend after the fall,
that first meeting between you and Paul,
starting a dream in St. Peter’s Church Hall.
They’re sure their grandparents lived next to you
at Mendips, at Kenwood, at Tittenhurst too.
There are family and friends, you've never seen
who'll claim to have lived through all of your dreams.
who have memories of the mania
at Candlestick Park and Shea Stadium.
Who saw you on the Ed Sullivan Show,
up on the rooftop of 3 Saville Row,
live in Hamburg and the Hollywood Bowl.
Stood by your bed at the Hilton Hotel,
and witnessed you weave your wonderful spell
They sat on the bus, the day you met George,
bought you a guitar and taught you some chords.
Watched you beneath the sweat of the Cavern,
sat on the floor as you wrote Imagine ;
introduced you to Stuart and Yoko,
and captured the love in every photo.
There are women you may not remember,
who held your hand one night in December,
who heard every shot, scream, shout and whisper
as you died in the weeks before Christmas.
These are the people who’ll chatter to hacks,
repeating their lies as though they were facts;
poison your name like a malignant tumour,
spreading their muck through gossip and rumour,
But time will come soon when you can reveal
all of the secrets behind Strawberry Fields,
Give Peace A Chance and Watching The Wheels .
And when that time comes, we'll listen to you;
John, you can tell us the things that are true.
The following people thank Tony Japanese for this post:Ahhh Girl, SgtPeppersBulldog, Beatlebug, TangerineTrees