A Welshman’s Flora
They read poems here every year
In memory of the last king,
Ambushed and strung up.
But he was no better than he might have been –
That leather apron over his arse,
An iron lid on his heart.
I stayed in Richard Burton’s buttonhole
A whole week. He never even changed his underwear.
And always the same formula:
Start with champagne, finish with scotch.
That kind of desperation is what life’s all about.
I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Life was so simple then, didn’t know I was born,
A well-kept border round a new-mown lawn,
Slug pellets scattered like small sapphire stones,
Then she sews me on her knickers and throws me at Tom Jones.
I was raised in Swansea, up on the Buckskin,
South of the Bill Williams,
And flowered regular every year.
But it’s a ghost-town now, the doors
Stove in and the power off.
You could be a genius there
And nobody around to give a damn.
Anthony Hopkins was right.
When I look in the mirror
I don’t know who I am.
The aliases, the identities
Are like someone else’s dream.
I’ve even thought of going home
But there can’t be anyone left by now. Continua a leggere