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.