Lee Miller at War
Be Kind Rewind
What a waste
Lee Miller at War That crazy blonde: Rollieflex, whiskey flask, typewriter and monogrammed knuckle-duster. Her helmet, with its custom visor, the one Roland painted vertical eye slits on; so she looked like a knight of Charlemagne on a quest. I can see her now in Dave Scherman’s photo, naked in Hitler’s bath tub, her great army boots on the floor, dirt from Dachau stamped into the rug. Copyright © 2015 Derek Adams
Be Kind Rewind Perhaps it would be kinder if I didn’t read this letter resealed its envelope put it back upon the doormat, where before the door shuts you could backup the stairs to place your clothes on the wardrobe’s rail take out a tissue from the bin push the tears back in as quieting words return between lips closing, silent, in a room where morning shines through slatted blinds on tousled heads, exhausted through nights of love and days spent decorating walls bright and new, should I carry you back over the threshold of our flat back through galleries and parks, cinemas and restaurants: back to the bar where our lips press in this first everlasting gobstopper of a kiss. Copyright © 2016 Derek Adams derek@derek-adams.co.uk
What a waste (for Ian Dury) There’s a feeling, like the memory of a Kursaal ride, an old wind, a cold wind that stirs inside. Rolling in like the wind off the estuary tide, down a dead flat, mud flat, eight miles wide. And somewhere, somefing, somehow sighed, what a waste - what a waste, Ian Dury died. Snazzy little geezer wiv a spazzy stick. A concrete mixer voice, rough and fick. Takes the stage, like a fief on the nick. Hard bard, art tart, don't giva shit. And somefing, somehow, somewhere sighed, what a waste - what a waste, Ian Dury died. Words of an angel, dressed wiv a mallet, mixed wiv spit from a painters palette. Raw sound, foot down, pushed to the limit, escaped from the cage of an old cock linnet. And somehow, somewhere, somefing sighed, what a waste - what a waste, Ian Dury died. Copyright © 2015 Derek Adams