Monday, January 31, 2011


I looked up to that smart young man,
who sang the angry songs,
that sliced up,
Thatcher's revolution.

But we grew up
and both went soft
occassionally sparking
in the dark.

Now I read online
that his personal life
is a scrambled, soggy mess
and he is an elder statement.

But the old stuff
pumps the blood as it always did,
and I love that angry, spiky
London kid.

Sneering his defiance
flattening their defences.
Burning down the state
loving with his hate.

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