Category Archives: Uncategorized

Alan Sillitoe

alansillitoe2

Highgate Cemetery was free for locals today. Here’s Alan Sillitoe, just a few yards away from Malcom McLaren !


A Christmas Poem

Its just about Christmas here in England, and I’,m thinking about my old friend Django again..

Django

Django played in the tunnels beneath Bank Station.
He fashioned a twisted scale,
that drifted on the air.
And he made me think of Morocco,
and the sweet fragrant smell of Marrakech.

Django: all awkward and angular,
with a mop of thick blond hair.
Had large bony fingers,
that made me think of Christ’s,
bending round the cross.

Django hummed as he played.
More moan than tune.
It sounded raw and real, and how he could feel the music.
And he made me think of the Mississippi delta,
and the wide expanse of river rolling along.

Django spoke silently to me,
and I to him.
We acknowledged each other,
as familiar strangers do.
With a nod of our heads.

One Christmas.
He wore a velvet hat Trimmed with ermine fur,
and an Arabian cloak to keep out the cold.
And I though of Gold, Incense, Frankincense and myrrh.
And things like joy and goodwill to all like Django.

Django was the name,
sent telepathically to me.
And I thought of Django Reinhart,
and his paralyzed fingers,
and of those who are not as fortunate as he.

Django busked during the winter of 1984,
while miners struck and the GLC crumbled.
And the memory of him, brings into focus,
this current hard winter,
and how warm it is underground.


Cook a Snook

cockasnook


Record Store Day

recordstoreday

Is a day away. Last year it was Traffic’s – John Barleycorn Must Die. This year….I’m still deciding. So go on: put the needle on the record !


Electronic Mother

metropolis

She keeps her mother going
with an old pay as you go.
Topping the credit from time to time.
Playing her voice,
her videos and old shopping notes.

She posts a status,
from time to time.
On her old Facebook page.
Tidying the grass,
that’s grown all around.

And when the time is right
she’ll pull that plug
on this old electronic mother.
Sending those ones and noughts
adrift and on the air.


St Patrick’s Day

DublinWritersMuseum

Dublin on a wet afternoon.
Sometime in spring.
In a smoking hotel,
with pizza and wine.
And a day trip to Bray,
on Sunday.
Outside of her room,
is an unwholesome alley.
Where sheltering boys
become hoodlums and drunks.
Happy St Patrick’s Day
she says to their ghosts.
To her old hometown city.
To the memories
more persistent than rain.

 


One of the 98

Old times.
New times.
Sitting around the fire.
One of the 98 my friend.
One of gods chosen ones.

A level field of yellow corn.
A magic lantern show.
Zero meaning and reeling forward.
One of the 98 my friend.
One of the ones you know.


The Clash Newcastle Polytechnic Oct 28 1977 and Dec 2 1978

Thinking of when I headed out Christmas shopping in 2002 and heard Joe Strummers death announced on the radio. I was stunned. Saw him live ’77 and ’78 at the Poly.

Vintagerock's Weblog

The Clash Newcastle Polytechnic Oct 28th 1977 and Dec 2nd 1978
Support acts: Richard Hell and the Viodoids (1977); The Slits (1978)
The Clash came back to Newcastle later in 1977, and again in 1978. I only have vague memories of the 1977 gig, and can;t be certain that I attended, although I think I did. I remember there was trouble and some fights at one, and maybe both, of the gigs. I read somewhere that Richard Hell had a firework thrown in his face. I have very vivid memories of the 1978 gig. By 1978 The Clash were massive, and the gig sold out almost immediately. I also bought tickets for their gig at Middlesbrough Town Hall, but sold them to a couple of mates so that I could go and see The Jam at the Mayfair that night. That night at Newcastle Polytechnic I saw something different in…

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BREAKUP WALTZ

Music to my ears

FLASHLIGHT CITY BLUES

and the way
we go on
when our words
lose their weight
is all just
a strange form
of grieving

and the way
that we call
with nothing
left to say
is all just
a strange form
of grieving

when they’re there
they are there
so you have
things to say
to these ghosts
who walk down
your hallway

now, listen
i’m sorry
i loved you
that’s the truth
it’s too late
it’s over
it’s over

time is not
always in
four four time
sometimes it
does what it
wants to do

sometimes we
dance and when
the song halts
all we have
left is our
waltz

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “10TH & OSAGE”

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Guesthouse Murmurings

Get a towel she said.
You should be asleep,
I know.
A couple talk:
cant wait to put on
clean clothes at home.
I feel I’ve worn everything,
so much.
The low drone of buses
travelling to Whitehawk.
Is the plumbing always
so loud in such places.
We all dream,
we certainly do.