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.

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.

The Chord’s Prayer

Our Feargal, which Art in Hanson,

hallowed be thy James;

thy Kinksdom come;

thy will.i.am,

in Garth as it is in Heaven 17.

Give us Green Day our Motörhead.

And forgive us our Travises,

Aswad forgive Them that Travis against us.

And lead us not into The Temptations;

but deliver us from Eno.

For grime is the Kinksdom,

T’Pau, and the Gloria,

For Everly and Everly.