Byzantium
To a distant friend killed in a car crash
At an unpredictable point in time
the brain
bowing under the weight of facts,
pulsed in protest
and spat the blood through your busy head
like the yoke of a badly boiled egg
The great jawline of that vaulted dome
slammed shut
– a vain attempt to prevent a meltdown –
broke in an instant
and lay like shards in a glass case,
the scant fragments of a mind too full
No longer you in that skidding car
stopped short,
crumpled by the random truck –
identity swept away –
and the empty shell of your curious skull
cracked and shattered by some cosmic trowel
They no longer mummify or pickle in jars
or stuff
what is worthy of preservation:
carved quaint prose
is what remains, recalled in the smoke
glimpsed by your Aeneas on the road to Rome.
Fan Club
back then
just a look or a word
or a touch
from those guys
could make us immortal
but the founder of Genesis
was busy on his phone
and Anderson (the guy with the flute)
danced behind a counter
selling fish
yeah man but I was in the same room
saw them both back then
and I seem to recall
Phillips (simply years ahead)
smiling shyly and someone from Tull
shouting peace man yeah
I’m sure he was talking to me
I was this close to Stacia in 72
Hawkwind far out yeah and Curved Air
that Sonja’s 72 today
and still gorgeous
still got the T shirts they signed
and did you know Lemmy yeah
he was born in Burslem
yeah man in the same effing street
Glastonbury yeah that was me too
yeah third row back
sitting on some guy’s shoulders
totally pissed
a-gain
yeah mate I mean Fripp and Eno
I mean they’re like gods
retired now
or gone
the old familiar faces
just like the seventies
all in our seventies
posting ripping yarns
from our new conservatories
the Peter Pans of YouTube
never such innocence,
never such innocence again
still
bloke in the pub quiz team
he was in a band
once you know
got to number 85
in the Billboard 100
with a song about gnomes.
Jane Hill’s Wife
As I search online for another glimpse of the immortals,
my way is barred by curious diversions, such as
“Breakfast Show guest swears live and walks off set” and
“Weather presenter reveals amazing new beard” and
“Take a close up look at Jane Hill’s Wife – so weird!”
Recalling that newsreader with the faint maternal smile,
I click the link idly and resist the fierce challenge of
“Important message for all you baby boomers” and
“Savvy pensioners cannot afford to miss this plan”; or
“Invest now. Protect your family while you can.”
I am not distracted: Jane’s Wife is my holy grail
as I bravely withstand straplines with their siren songs, such as
“Whatever became of the other Herman’s Hermit…?” and
“You won’t believe how much Snow White has grown old…” or
“This horror-child is now a gorgeous centrefold.”
But I am wise to these distractions that would entice us
And I resist the lure of more sinister temptations:
“Can COVID really increase your memory skills?” and
“The ten greatest movies of Johnny Depp revealed” and
“Name all the teams who have won the Charity Shield.”
And now she is there again, this unseen Eurydice
awaiting my gaze as the flight of an arrow leads to
“Ten TV celebrities in same-sex relationships” and
“Ten stars called Jane who made it big, it’s said” and
“Ten famous people called Hill who are now all dead.”
And always the advertising fed intravenously,
half-truths and oxymoron turning brain to stone:
“These baked beans buff you up better than Botox” and
“Love Island cutie reveals beauty secrets of tar” and
“New tanned body for less than the price of a car.”
I reach Olympus. And here at last to greet me
Is Jane, the face that launched a thousand headlines:
“Boris Johnson says Brexit is a done deal” and
“Scientists say climate change is caused by cows” and
“Jane Hill caught on camera adjusting her blouse.”
Blinded by her fame, I cannot avert my gaze:
I am one step from my objective. I click again:
“A personal message to you from Jane Hill’s Wife”. Yes?
“The Internet gods are cruel. They take no prisoners.
“So respect my privacy. And mind your own bloody business.”
And, armed with clutch purse and tiara, Jane’s hologram stands
Next to a cut out silhouette: the wife. And Jane says:
“Behold. A false trail leads only to a dead end” and
“Go home. Turn off your computer. Get a life.”
And thus ends my epic quest for Jane Hill’s Wife.
Yet now, in old age, I still desire to dwell with the gods
by Googling the divine along well trodden paths, such as
“The quick and easy way to write your will” and
“The new dementia craze that is sweeping the nation”,
“Blind faith”, “assisted death” and “cut price cremation.”
Jeff Gallagher is a poet and playwright living in West Sussex. He has had numerous plays for young people published and performed nationwide. His poetry has appeared in The Journal, One Hand Clapping, Makarelle, Spellbinder and Runcible Spoon.
Bindweed Magazine 