wytchcroft

Well, the night you was born

Lord I swear the moon turned a fire red

The night you was born

I swear the moon turned a fire red

Many a poor mother cried out lord, the gypsy was right!

That gypsy woman that told your Pa

Gonna be mystic, gonna go far.

Got born east of Main Street under a shooting star

You could steal Groucho Marx’s cigar

And smile

Coz you’re a hoodoo chile

Yes you are

Chopping down sand with the edge of your hand

Veni, vidi, vici

With a rock n roll band.

From the Martian canals to the Motherland; Old Europe, Ireland and the lost Allemagne

How many seasons, left behind

To pity the poor immigrant who travels with their mind...

1968

Was a weekend plus one

Honeymooning May with the cops on the run.

You always loved the action – as your friends all know

(Weren’t you the first to review Orson’s Macbeth show?

Still running numbers for the boys

Sing-Sing to Canary row…)

Please allow me to introduce you

And your wild child birth existence

Snapshots from unlimited time…

- Remember when we got back from Paris, the jetlag and caffeine still kicking in our brains?

You wanted to catch the living theatre, a happening, something to instil the revolutionary fire you craved.

But your leg in the big dumb cast where you toppled off the ice skates… Hell to that! So we went anyway and someone signed your plastered limb, barely 25 minutes in and the joint was jumping -how many signatures, how many hands stretching out like tentacles – and we barely made it out alive. And there, in the bare bulbed comfort of the Chelsea reading the list of names and nearly wigging out because in spidery blue you could see ‘johnandyoko’. I still don’t know, was it really them? Did you ever find out?
1971. I guess it’s possible.

But we never did make it to the water Beetle show.

And on and on the merry crazed adventures – Thalia driven; the Muse Goddess laughing down, from 1927 all the way to stone wall, from Sacco and Vanzetti to the New York Dolls, from the old croaker in the dim apartment when I was sick…. to the luxury of the Orient Express and the confines of the boat when you ran that Pirate radio station.

What it is to be the Muse – Howard Hughes pursued you, stocks tumbling in your wake.

Put a jinx on anything.

1968.