33 and 1/3

Jan age 15 by Connemoira age 15

That first record of yours,
my child name scrawled across it,
a Christmas present
Meet the Beatles
(they’ll never last…)
sits in the closet well preserved. 

Upon the blustery, forbidden moor,
you wander, free from wanting hands,
but wanting hearts still search you out.
You strike in defense
“Leave me be – you didn’t know me.

Get over yourself.

To the fans who call your name,
to the mediums demanding your return,
to the hustlers and the marketeers,
the shamans and ghost whisperers,
“Leave me be…”

Get over yourself.

I have your record – I own you.
Yes, I defy you.
Yes, you blasted, lonely sod,
you lost defiant child,
prisoner to wanting crowds,
who paid you with a lonely death upon a copper’s flat back seat.
Those wretched vampires you mocked,
but whose love you craved. 

Get over yourself. 

Fan Love is a bitch that keeps on giving…eternally.
The shock of dying quite alone,
having your fame shouted so loud you couldn’t hear it.
it made you deaf,
it made you blind,
never knowing until the bullet hit
that it had all been a dream.
And you a dreamer ever still,
upon that far, forbidden moor
awaiting the next trespasser so you can tell him “Sod off.”     

You’ll never change,
but you always and forever will be
my first love. 

old man…

From Writing for the Absent Reader.  Available on Amazon 

Writing for the Absent Reader

6 thoughts on “33 and 1/3

  1. Hi Jan,

    Troubled thoughts chasing one down the sidewalk. A long drought of loneliness with sand in the ear. She followed me down to the corner and kept asking questions. I had to go, but her look was all dog and needing far more than I could deliver with broken hands. People don’t think of those sort of things, stuff like you put in your poem. The books are there with all the directions and you open them up right before you go to sleep. Sons and daughters are left in the hair stylist shop and you met political leaders, but what is always there are the old friends, someone exactly like you. Well, I could have complimented the poem with the common descriptors. I could have sung your praise with the old tune that wraps around all of us. I can’t do that. No, I need to make you believe in what you write without addressing the topic directly. It’s a tricky operation, here at the bottom of the sea, but I think you can understand my voice over the intercom, even with the static and the sharks attacking our metal cage. You know the one we got on sale at Captain Bob’s Cages. Thanks. Duke P.S. Still hung over from the Weatherman.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thanks Aaron – that’s a cool song. I’d never heard it before. I wonder if Lennon would have ever come to terms with being put on a pedestal if he’d lived. Somehow I doubt it.


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