There was something warm in the old guitars
The valves that glowed in the dark
We were not like our fathers
At night, we sat by braziers
At midsummer, we were pagans
We drove westwards in our multi-coloured cars
Do you remember my old Cortina?
I was Lancelot, you were Guinevere
How did you find me here?
Who gave you my number?
I am a professional, not some pin-up
on a pre-Raphaelite poster
Your message is misogyny –
A demeaning patriarchy
You seek, clearly, to objectify
to diminish my authority
by the enslavement of beauty
Remember the squat in Amesbury
where I was busted for half a tab?
Do you remember the books by our bed?
You were my white goddess
All those years – Windsor and Stonehenge
The free festivals. Our history
I was sectioned in Salisbury
I was buried by the plod.
Well, you were always a little mad
To defy your parents’ authority
you made the sun into your god
with your weird version of anarchy
You didn't realise, my realm was lunar
The fleeting mysteries
of Bacchus and Dionysius
were burned up by your power
How could I disempower a deity
merely by saying that you were hot?
By the way, I worshipped you
If I have offended, I am sorry
In the modern world, all is rational
The scattered tribes of the Westway
have lost their remedies, their currency
People look at me as if I am crazy
