For Heathcote Williams on what would have been his birthday
on November 15
At 82 those graced hands would have had a touch
More curvature to them; perhaps a tad claw-like,
And marked by a pen’s callouses, as you scribbled on,
Intent to engage generations with journalistic revelations
And word inferred palaces in which you still reside
Albeit somewhere other than Oxford; some stellar
Locale, no doubt secret but known to Shelley of course,
And Marlowe. Not forgetting Burroughs and Beilles
And each bristling kiss gobbed by Ginsberg,
As each great poet prances, prosody preens to bestow
Glory to the stars, and from the stars
Through each sentence that you gave and gifted.
I will read you again on Wednesday. As I do everyday.
Rarely does one go by with no Williams. I touch
Your text at the table at which I have sat to scribe this.
And imagine the spot you now ink with a stain
That’s pure spirit as I recall from death,
The skin’s celebration. For the former flesh, then
More feeling. Happy birthday, H.
Here’s your kiss.
David Erdos 10/11/23