And it screams ‘Morrisey’s our baby’
pram pusher, molly coddler. It screams I’m coming to get you
in the morning with the sunlight in my hand.
Beats of Mersey wit give way to guitar strings across the
Garrotte yourself with music, hang on that stave turning poetry
to trickery and melody
and harmony – quite possibly.
It’s dancing like a maniac, the maniac perhaps
Screaming, ‘this is music, city of music.’ Beats culture beat does it?
McGough and Patten went up the hill to spread the words of culture
reached the top couldn’t see the sea
and gave way to stone rose Mondays.
Still screaming ‘Morrissey’s our baby’
clutching him, the messianic son. Catching raindrops
greydrops in the panic, screams somewhat profoundly,
‘Will this town drag you up?’
Trundling down the streets of Rodney as they swerve to meet
Oswald Mosley and though Rooney
has fallen down the steps of St. George’s,
Lowry’s men are as anorexic as ever.
and when Burgess’ earthly powers challenged Rita for education
She became clockwork.
And it screams ‘Morrissey’s our baby’
spewing reamsof plagiarised original genius.
Death by this is certainly possible
when the same picturewordsound
goes round and round and
round and round
in this humdrum fucking town
which will fucking drag you down.
It’s the Northern Blues I understand
But I’ve got sunlight in my hand.