Monday, October 16, 2006

Wakes Week 1961.

Gene Vincent rocked around the waltzer,
loud then louder, as the car
spun and went around,
up and down
in evening’s rhythms.
A rocker posed in leather gear,
cigarette mouthed
with a James Dean sneer -
he hadn’t died yet
over here

Jerry Lee electrified the dodgems -
Pikey scamland.
Stepping easy onto rear bumpers,
with practised rock’n lechery;
coppery smelling sleights of hand
that double-crossed with silver.

The melded smells of onions, candy floss,
smoke and toffeee apples,
black peas - salted, sprinkly vinegared,
served in mugs with broken handles.
Cries of “One more ride” from tired-out kids with tearful eyes
being torn away home.

I liked it best when pubs had shut,
and zig-zag men would come and drop
their money in the mud.
They’d curse and circle, one eye closed,
and mutter, ‘fuck’ or, ‘shit’,
then bend their way around the fair
and lose it,
bit by bit.

Wakes Week -

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