Fiona aka Flea 

She sang              swore     
                 protest words         
mouse-hymns
     no         nursery 
rhymes         

Putting on             make-up
        scratching it         
            off     again

                Black eyes                                              
the scores
                            nil                         
memory     
            nil        

Grope 
        etch
        a
            spoon     
needle-fed
                  bleed
with               drawl                       
miss     
            tricks 

An angel 
        clucking.




C.V. 

          At the edgelands of middle England I nosedived.

          I made friends and then lost them in the woods and fields.

          The laboratory of all I touched got hotter.

          I never took the career-shaped taxi to town.

          I drifted like smoke at night, seen only in headlights, through the Thatcher years and 
        beyond: the Falklands, Iraq, and Iraq once more

          Tasted the road; every skid and screech and bouquet.

          I was rock-salt-in-the-kneecaps sore.

          Moved out onto sofas and filled bin bags with shavings of sleep.

          I would hunker in bus-stops and alleys; listening out for the city of whispers. 

          I never paid-in or index-linked.

          Under the pavement was the sea, rushing and roaring in, trying to find me: it did not.




Number 8 Claremont Road: In a Blood Room

The broken frame of a piano sulks off-key:
I stop pacing this piss-stench circle,
notice clots of blood on splayed ivory veneer.

Splintered wood, exposed wires -
broken piano lungs
twitch in the key of c sharp.

Brains on blown plaster,
missing floorboards,
spent bullets,

a bent spirit-level nailed on a punctured wall -
I finger
a loose-boned blues.




   The Claremont Road Can of Rhythm Sound System

    Dub     bass                 BOOM           

            rimshot         scatter                   

    BOOM                 shakka-lakka
           
            ground    glass darkly
    I
        can
            hear
                for miles
                                                       Ever Sonic            
    Youth and heavy                
            hex                 Daxaar rhythm;
                            where
    the snare
                             drum crashed
    and echoed
    fighting with each                 Lee Perry
                            smear
    over
            this gashed
            and improvised
     wall
    of   
            sound
                            I           
                            can
                            hear
                                    for miles.




Maggie, Steve and The Poll Tax Riot

Do you remember the time in Trafalgar Square? A scaffold pole flung through the police car
windscreen, the helmet-less copper punching a pensioner and Steve screaming fuuucking
caaant at the copper, who was about eighteen years old, bug-eyed in blue. Steve, me and

bloody everyone jamming crowd-barriers under the wheels of that riot van that drove into
us; the chanting, the van trying to reverse out, the chanting and shouting and the van getting
stuck; the chanting and shouting and smashing as we rocked the van over. Then the tsunami

crowd-surge, Steve tripping, falling into the road; the police horses charging, Steve crushed
under hooves; the screams; human, horse, ambulance. At eleven that evening I watched
Steve in a hospital bed, breath courtesy of a machine; tubes, lines-in and all I could hear was 

                                           MAGGIE MAGGIE MAGGIE
   
                                                        OUT
 
                                                        OUT

                                                        OUT

over and over and over.



     Paul Hawkins 2013