We all die and the only thing not to know is how: Some ‘cos they eat too much cow. Some ‘cos they smoke. Some ‘cos they don’t joke.
We all go to the undertakers: Some ‘cos they’re unlucky overtakers. Some ‘cos they’re sinking death rowers. Some ‘cos they’re drowning maritime blowers.
We all get our card marked and have to punch it: Some ‘cos they get sick. Some ‘cos they’re alcoholic. Some ‘cos they give up the ghost and the spirit.
We all curl up our tootsies and push up daisies: Some ‘cos they freeze. Some ‘cos they wheeze. Some ‘cos they’re 1352-plagued with a sneeze.
We all kick the bucket and lay in a ‘coffin’: Some ‘cos they fight cancer but give in. Some ‘cos they end it all in a spin not knowing where to begin.
We all meet our deliverer: Some ‘cos they meet their killer. Some ‘cos they die for someone like Hitler. Some ‘cos they’re so careless they have no idea.
We all leave this mortal coil: Some ‘cos there’s too much toil. Some ‘cos they’re buried in soil. Some ‘cos they get a boil.
We all cop it and die: Some ‘cos they fry. Some ‘cos they told a lie and some ‘cos there’s no knowing why.
She’d always be a teen despite the passing, and doing of, time. Such was the shock from the adults around no reason for that action would ever be found.
He himself got off, never hung. Deserved as much as her, highly strung. A medieval case, the modern press shook as her identity parade paraded on his facebook.
Amy Winehouse would have been celebrating her 40th birthday today. I wrote this poem soon after her death in 2011 as part of my ‘Side One’/’Side Two’ collection of the time drawing on my favourite music artists. Of course, I never met her or even saw her perform live, but tried to imagine what she might write That was the concept of that collection at the time – try and write in the style of the artist named or at least use them as inspiration for the poem.
Crinkled headlines on my forehead showing my tabloid age, your front pages only had time for me when you were in my face. So, now I’m memorable and kind of unforgettable I’ve gone to another place.
Stars like me fall they say ‘cos we get so high but stars like me shine in the big black sky. I wasn’t always a picture of happiness but you know what nor were you even at your best.
I had a great voice. One of those inexplicable things that weren’t my choice. So, as this circus waits for my posthumous third album release for all my faults I’ll have to flop in the charts before you’ll let me half Rest In Peace.
Thanks to my family. Thanks to my friends. Thanks to my fans. This is where the story ends. Nobody has the right to write about me, especially a nobody who never knew me like you! Only each and every one of us can understand what each and every one of us goes through.
Won’t it end in a lie if truth be told? Gold diggers say that when they don’t find gold. I got a flea-market here that just won’t perform. The sea is so rough they launch a shipwreck for the coming storm. Accountants sack their horses and succinctly bolt for the door. Writers have their feelings, but readers feel it’s all a bore. I’ve got nothing to say; mimes for rhymes; The seventh time it’s happened for several times. Let’s lose ourselves to see who wins. Let’s fillet a French film to see how it fins.
To see you again is such an again. Shop around for love but, before you buy, get into Zen. Workers working round the clock for way under hate overtime and little wonder. Do you think about what you’re saying before you have a fit? Have you ever been at home and trashed it? As broom sticks become crutches for witches I’m in tears and in stitches. Everyone and their learned and illiterate laughter is canned for what’s to come and the hereinafter.
Should I regret my ‘suicide’ or ‘death by misadventure’? Don’t ask; it’s just a benchmark for a bencher. Wear a sweater mundane. Keep it simple and plain.
As random as a random turn and heading for a fate I sealed it in an envelope and second class did wait. And when it came I opened it and whispered out aloud. Well well well and well, said I well well well and well then thundered out some lightening and puffed a big grey cloud.
Higher than a drama high and playing down to low I didn’t say goodbye at all but said a sad hello. And when my bucket hit rock bottom I pulled it out my well. Well well well and well, said I well well well and well then laced my drink to let me drowse until asleep I fell.
As wondrous as a rainy bow I didn’t seem to mind and tied a knot with string to spare and read a message signed. And when a diggy dog did dig a treasure trove was there. Well well well and well, said I Well well well and well then stopped a stopwatch on its way which didn’t seem to care.
So, shredded as an ageing fleur and crumbly as a cemetery I asked if anybody here could die of immortality? And how I gasped when then up-popped a real talking rabbit: Well well well and well, said rabbit well well well and well but if you find whatever it is hide it quick as well.
Some moonwalk backwards past. Some slow-motion steer. Some upwards beanstalk mast. Some downhill rabbit hole disappear.
Some hand in hand. Some distant one-man elastic band. Some three-legged race. Some astronaut-float through space.
Some in 14th century rags. Some in 1789 attire. Some in birthday suit bags. Some with hair on fire.
Meanwhile as I sit and sip, the rusty wind-up toy cafe box spins. Teacup saucer tables on springs: me with magic roundabout zebedee eyes watching dougal-walking brians, florences and dylans greeting goodbyes
Seagulls screech overhead understating the depths below. Fleeting bubble meetings that burst and go.
Spirit buzz energising the soul. Sat with the salt of the earth by the sea on deckchairs with the old laughing their heads off at how time flew since get-together births.
If you feel like not bothering a cigarette will give you a chance to walk away. I’m off for a fag getaway but if you really care, no excuses will mean you’ll be able to stay.
Chaotic cars drive themselves in car parks. Everything is out of control and depends on the last lyric you listened to like ‘but you blew my mind.’ I can’t thank you enough for telling me something I never knew.
Speaking after the service to the Uffculme gravedigger filling in the grave, he came out with some choice Devon that would have pleased Dave. Like’em say; them with lots of friends die young! 200 or so I counted, and all there for one.
The bells rang out at St Mary’s at the end, after Dun Ringill by Tull. Bells that that mischievous buyy (pulling the other one) often would literally pull. Catching the bus back to Exeter with postmarked post I’d sent long ago, beloved Devonia, with its herds and hills, was on a roll.
28 year gone since it would begin with Bill and that Friday pint and pasty lunchtime break at The Bridge Inn. You, always a half cider at most, while me on that infamous occasion (bolloxed) having got to It’s not fair! back from The Double Locks.
Then there was your pride and joy Barclay which you worked on meticulously only for it to break down at the wrong moment unfailingly. Your old leather jacket and more reliable Moto Guzzi. Whether the engine was running or not, our vintage joke was I never knew your age exactly.
Musically, (apart from our mutual Who worship), we dueled with compilations designed to educate. Your greatest victories were Jethro and The Moody Blues. Mine Morrissey, though (for your begrudging acknowledgement) you made me wait! In recent years, you sent DVDs and gave me a proper job hard disk portable drive to use.
Last time, last December we met as usual at Waterstones, Cathedral Green. After a bit of dithering about going somewhere different, we went on to Topsham and The Passage Inn. You, holding up your cup, and with an impish smile, milking the fact I said it wasn’t the done thing in Italy to drink a cappuccino with your main meal!
Lots more to mention like my printing offset litho disaster when, with ink flying off onto the Vincent Thompson carpet (a stain that would never disappear!) you came to my rescue. Or the (not so many?!) times you covered for me arriving late for work, worse for wear. Or our laughing at Bill’s legendary assertion that before I met you all, I had no character.
So, yes, please all rise, and hats off to The Mighty Trist, as he takes a bow in all his fine family crest pageantry. Well, me old bugger, you’m gone and done it now. You b’aint be coming back, will he?
In memory of Dave (David Anthony Trist 1954-2015) This poem written 26/5/2015
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 