Lonely river cries, wait for me, Joe Strummer

He walked Peter
Raphael falling behind

Turning over a dead bird
and nosing its wings

Came home, read the paper
and died

Just like that, or possibly, he clutched his chest like the felon in the original

Ocean’s Eleven who, possessed with the vigor of dying, barks at his doctor

It’s the Big Casino, isn’t it?

I loved him in my youth, felt very little
but suspicion (he just died?)

And years later, disliked him, in the Julian Temple biofilm

Not for going to boarding school: in truth, I couldn’t make it through the

First 15 minutes or so of the hippie bonfire

And then the other day, I saw his picture and my heart felt like it was

Running and falling, racing to him,
to my own youth, of course,

But also my parallel lives had just twanged and I and he DID

Meet in London, extraordinarily, and under Cleopatra’s Needle

I swore to love him forever as, in the other life, I moved right past him

Past the underwater moans and howling dissent, the pure poetry

His beauty still more pure, my Turkish
matinee idol

His terrible hands like electrical fire

He and I left everyone and everything
in that life

One of many still, Fuck you for forgetting me, he says

Fuck me? I say.


In the life where I love him, he forgives me everything, even this


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