Well, I started writing a novel a while ago.
Sadly my P.C broke and this dopey woman didn’t keep back up the old one.
I will start again as of tomorrow.
I will write it in weekly chapters.
Its title will be “LEAVING.”
It will be full of twists and turns.
I shall look forwards to sharing it with you.
It will start with a poem, my favourite writing genre.
It will end with a poem.
I sincerely hope it captures your imagination.
I haven’t had much breathing time for a while.
Work has taken precedence over much of my free time.
I am back now.
I can see all the smiles.
Next Saturday 29th August I am taking part in a charity fundraising day for THE AMY WINEHOUSE FOUNDATION.
It is being held at THE TALKING HEADS on PORTSWOOD ROAD SOUTHAMPTON from 1300 and it will continue late into the night.
I will be presenting some spoken word poetry
Do you know what?
Tomorrow never comes.
Well it didn’t for you.
Sweet baby blue.
Swallowed by success.…
A musical soul.
Through your veins ran such talent.
Opened your mouth and pleasure flowed.
What once was magic.
Bought forth wretched tragedy.
Talent damaged by a life of dreams of lemonade bubbles.
Lemonade full of trouble.
A diamond in the rough.
The loss of such amazing talent.
Amy sweet Amy.
Queen of the voice.
Feed the ears of the world.
Still dance in the shadows.
You may in persona be gone.
Powerful voice without end.
Tomorrow and for many more tomorrows we keep you near in heart and mind.
Tales of being taken much too soon.
Of your sad loss the tales are true
Sleep long and peaceful.
Only the good die young.
Dedicated to Amy Winehouse.
AS WE KNOW IT
Sushi lies, shining eyes.
Diamond mines and speeding fines.
Wines and wonders.
Firing gun, setting sun.
Suicide bomber’s numbers up.
So many tears.
So many cry.
Man and his madness.
Makes cherished world die.
Created of vinyl.
Beaten by heat.
This place is not sweet.
Disgraceful murder taking place daily.
Black cabs and ab-dabs.
Dashing through London streets,
High heels and crippled feet.
Back street bars,
Hide and seek.
Black panther’s in lippy,
Turbans and tunics,
Kiddies in cotton with mud on their bottoms.
Big Whigs and stiff prigs.
Market stalls and rubber balls.
Undergrounds and all around.
City beats, it’s hopping on.
On and off off of buses and train.
London love life kicking pain.
Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish.
A couple more beers, three seconds of fun.
Slipped into his glass.
Glass one, two three,