Freddie Mercury, aged 15

He missed those after school rituals,
fags behind the bike sheds, flirting
girls who had one more button undone
than regulations allowed. Not for him
following the crowd
into shops lifting what they could.

Down a disused siding sat an old signal box,
smashed windows, broken locks.
Taking dodgy wooden steps two-by-two
he raced up to his stage. Took off his blazer
hung it on one shoulder and gazed
beyond the terraces
at an audience only he could see.
One hand on hip,
he grabbed a lever,
yanked it towards his mouth,
mimed songs ringing in his ears.
Then throwing it forward and breaking free,
strutted through broken glass.
He stepped and spun on egg shells.
Twisted round and spun again.
Pouted before that final move.

Feet wide apart
head bowed to earth,
one hand reaching for the stars.

I bought a Bukowski quote pin badge

Charles, I know you’ll think I’m a twat,
but for all that it’s really your fault.
If you hadn’t been so pithy –
and before you ask, I don’t have a lisp –
I wouldn’t have bought it.
In fact somebody wouldn’t have been arsed
to print it. So there it is.
You who got drunk, whored and fought
your way along the far edge of poetry,
flaming the establishment in the process,
have become a commercial success.
All those riding on the back of your life after death.
Raking it in.
Boy, wouldn’t you hammer out a few choice poems,
your typewriter clattering in anger through the small
hours, cigarette smoke and whisky-scented air.
As it is I wear my pin badge with panache.
None of those other saps came up with
‘Poetry is what happens when nothing else can’.