Robert Smith’s Lockdown Diary

I don’t know if Monday’s blue.
It could be Tuesday. Wednesday, too.
Or Friday, I don’t have a clue.
But Thursday’s when I clap.

Monday, I don’t want to blame.
Tuesday, Wednesday not defame.
Nor Friday – every day’s the same,
But Thursday’s when I clap.

The weekend’s scrapped.
No Saturday, Sunday. It’s left a gap.
Thursdays, I never cease to clap.

I don’t know if Monday’s black.
A weekly schedule’s what I lack.
My sense of time’s not coming back,
But Thursday’s when I clap.

Chronologies I disavow.
Tuesday’s Wednesday, I don’t know how.
Friday’s just like Monday now.
But Thursday’s when I clap.

Have Yourself a Brexit Little Christmas

Have yourself a Brexit little Christmas
and fill your days with fun,
because we know our troubles will have just begun.

Have yourself a Brexit little Christmas
and drink your days away.
From now on, our troubles will be here to stay.

Here we are as in olden days,
so-called golden days of yore.
Failing those who are near to us
for they are dear to us no more.

So just say auf wiedersehen to Europe,
au revoir and ciao,
then hang a tattered flag upon a lonely bough,
and have yourself a Brexit little Christmas now.

The Ice is Slowly Melting

And if you gaze long into Abbey Road,
Abbey Road also gazes into you.’

They cross but come back once more,
in the early August morning light,
walking out, not quite in step,
painting colour on black and white.

A photographer perches on his ladder,
sandals lie abandoned on the floor,
a man – with hands on hips – gazes, counts:
one and one and one and one is four.

It would have been easier to let things be,
declare they were already past their prime,
but they want to – they want to so bad –
come together, right now, one last time.

Because the amps are there, they turn them on
and – for a moment – arguments disappear;
there’s something in the way they play,
it seems like years since they’ve been here.

Ringo counts them in, of course,
as the lights and recriminations fade –
one and one and one and one is four –
in this Maida Vale hideaway in the shade.

Some bits are stitched together​
with sun-honeyed harmonies
and fenestrated fragments
of musical mastery –

miserly, mustardy –
under the custody
of polythene dreams,​​
a golden-slumbered tapestry

of rich, interwoven melodies,
snatches, echoes, refrains,
and it carries the weight
(it’s so heavy!)

of where they’ve come from
and where they will go
in the end.

Back outside, we glimpse them through the lens;
four is one and one and one and one.
They walk across the road once more
and then they’re gone.

The Abbess is a pretty nice girl
But she doesn’t have a lot to say.
The Abbess is a pretty nice girl
But all she seems to do is pray.
I want to tell her that I love her a lot
But I gotta drink a bottle of Blue Nun,
The Abbess is a pretty nice girl
One day we’re going to have some fun, oh yeah,
One day we’re going to have some fun.

Blitzkrieg Top

When I put on my Ramones tee-shirt,
with its presidential seal of rebellion,
I can almost smell the revolution

in the air.

I like to wear it everywhere:
down the match or shopping mall,
on the golf course, in the gym, or

in Costa

where I sometimes sit and watch the
protest marches go past the window,
whilst sipping on my frappuccino.

All roads lead

to Ramones; you will see our breed
on every street, pushing strollers,
iPhoned jogging rock n’ rollers,


in cottoned nonconformity, a giant
army of tee-shirted mayhem makers
(once we’ve read the Sunday papers).

Hey ho, let’s go.

what you need to remember when you bring all the boys to the yard

so your milkshake
brings all the boys to the yard
well i am pleased for you
but remember that tuesday
is laundry day
and that is when
i hang my underwear
like bunting
on the washing line
under the vanilla sun
so should all the boys
catch on the breeze
the scent of your sweet to goodness milkshake
and assemble in the yard
like so many birds
they should be mindful
of my stripy boxers
as they dry
with all their flap flap flapping

Pretty Things

They spent the day swapping
stardust-sprinkled stories

of classroom rebel rebels
and rescued car journeys,

eye-shadowed evenings
of first gigs and girlfriends,

best gigs and boyfriends,
fan letters insanely penned,

awkward teenage oddities,
faces and phases and changes,

moon landings, all-time lows,
serendipity in far-off places,

the loneliness of Lazarus,
and the golden years of families,

fame, fashion, fancies, dances,
all the fanatically-vinyled panoplies,

tall, true tales of we-can-be-heroes,
for Planet Earth was blue

and there was nothing else
they could do.

Duffle Coat

Your band
was a one song wonder.
Don’t know whether
you made another.

Got made
NME single of the week.
It put the bubble
in my squeak

and the snap
and crackle in my pop.
Twelve weeks solid
I did not stop

playing it.
The jingle-jangles
the awkward angles

of what it’s like
to be fifteen.
I kept the sleeve

wore a duffle coat
all that summer.
I hear you became
a plumber.