if they airbrushed my face could i be a rocket or could i somehow perhaps evolve into a star a sort of rock star cold and dead long abandoned somewhere out in space (or else temple bar or maybe blackpool (uk playing an cat dubh with just a hint of irony in my personal remediation pod what noisy cats are we pipes up mike (oldfield for some reason, chiming with that inane hankie dance he always does (but god bless him and god bless this black velvet underground and her peoples i'm from a band they used to call U2 we're not from derry we're from dubh linn blackpool as you call it there it's a dead star now the shape and size of a human head (no prizes for guessing whose and this is a song about a black cat that we may very well have stolen off charles manson who himself had flogged it from the beatles (to whom we still haven't actually got around to (like um stealing it back? she-kaaaaat
eyes radar green / the drummer kicks it in & (s)he spills her beer \ meanwhile onstage & as i hit record in paradiso birds float like a light show unsafe for epileptics i'd describe it as black & white music grainy d-tuned & free as a whip! crack for the deaf i'd describe it as still i have no other words - describe "snap".
returning the reserve to jungle;
the owls too return, & headlights
prowl the perimeters of suburban
lawns. Letting out a yearn I hit
the back fence with my hind legs,
shovelling out an escape hatch to
nowhere. Nothing but the tree dark
Join our guest editor Greg McLaren as he navigates the river of Adamson’s poetry, with new work by John Tranter, Kate Fagan, joanne burns, Stuart Cooke, Adam Aitken, Adrian Wiggins, James Stuart and the mysterious Albert Adamson, Chris de Adamson and Golda Finch.