THE MAN WHO COULDN’T BE KILLED

 

 

i.m. Daevid Allen

 

 

Benign trickster, mellow as a spliff

before the violations of skunk.

Squeezer of sponges over policemen’s heads,

impersonating gnomes in a metallic voice.

Beatnik exile from Wowserland

crashing at Graves’ Mallorcan pad,

begging a band-name from Burroughs.

Dreamer in chords and swirling synths,

Pied Piper of the inner temple.

You re-connect me to the earpiece

on my school-night pillow –

thirteen once more, I’m galvanised

with hope from your pothead planet.

 

 

Norman Jope

 

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