a Londinium leftover
the has-been of disowned heydays
never quite marshalling legions
but manoeuvring for music
for all these years
for all those ears
those gallons of Guinness
heart-buffetting self-expressions
wrong turns and giggles
triumphant trombones and electronica
snaking off the leash
on the loose
on the lookout
for Marlowe mayhem
anyone anyhowl anytime now
moans and ends
odes and modes
jabbering over muffled jukeboxes
what have you missed?
where have you been?
you are in your hundreds
rather than your teens
remembering a who's who
of unlicensed scientists
twiddling while Deptford turns
its back on its own children
on its own garden
a hallucinogenic allotment
where a little meant a lot
where art should have blossomed
like Burgess on Bloomsday
should have sold like
pizzas by Pollock
let them be court-martialled in absentia
those fuddled and coddled by Friday shitcoms
frightened of Routemasters or loud noises
those imagining we would sit forever
tuning up and waiting for the dustcloud
bounce of their illustrious posteriors
on this humble upholstery
waiting for some initiative
to flicker through their tumbleweed heads
before unpuntered pubs shrivel and cancel
disconsolate concerts
no-one-at-home-movies
folk songs for diasporas of delusion
weighted with might-have-beens
wasted and worsened
last orders
lost treasures
a cardboard Kafka cacocracy
still strains to strangle
unfettered unmetered
meetings of mind-enhancers
dancers and listeners
pipetting spirits into plastic
piping commerce into chat
choking off beloved brews
with force-fed football
and foul sandwich
we see now the perverbial truth that
absence speaks louder than words
but will just have to make more noise
to cast more nets more widely
clubbing together clubless
doubtless penniless
lessons learned
legions earned
rethinking regrouping
early birds getting the word out
soldiering on after the centurion
with his perverbial advice
when in Rome, do it yourself
but for now
and for the last time
we raise roof and glasses
reverberating in memory of great nights
and hundreds of pints under the bridge
picturing the next outpost
of spontaneous outburst
some other backroom reliquary
unanointed profane temple
of reckless reconnaissance
and dishevelled poetry
of skiffle surrealism
obstinance and accidents
ruptured saloon-bar soundtracks
tricks of the light
trips on the tube
traps in the night
we go on go forward
we will win we will
making meeting minding
finding feeling
dicing with debt
sharing showing
reading writing a rhythmic
reckoning rightly
twice nightly
having our wake and beating it.
© Paul Taylor 2004
The Centurion in Deptford was a home for live music and other arts for many years, and hosted performances by The Blowpipes and trombone poetry. In April 2004, the final improvised music gigs took place before the pub closed its doors to art.
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