Trudell's gone to mama
He'll meet her in the sky
Trudell's gone to mama
He knows the reason why
Trudell's gone to Mama
I never heard him cry
Trudell's gone to Mama
His ideas won't die
Sorry about the words. I just wanted to say something. I knew John Trudell in sound. He only lived in sound. For me that is. For others John Trudell breathed love. John Trudell breathed fire. I'd heard the name John Trudell. Not in sound. I never heard the name in sound. I heard the name on paper. I know not if he was a whiskey indian or a man who went to war as i'm told is true for Leonard Peltier in the tones spoke out by Cash and Dylan. I never knew John Trudell but I met him somewhere. Now his time is up I meet his absence clearly. I wonder about our meeting. The one that didn't happen. The page I heard him on. I think I see a book. The book it had a title. I knew the title then. I don't know it now. It's gone. The title like John Trudell is gone for John Trudell has gone to Mama. Words, People, Books, they all go. But i'm told and i'm told, in these times we live in, ideas never die. I guess when John meets Mama he'll just leave them in the sky.
Today, in history, John Lennon was murdered. I'm wondering now we're bombing Syria if Give Peace A Chance has been removed from the Beeb's playlist as it was when we went into Iraq along with any other peace song.
Last night in my history for the first time I watched Gerard Deulofeu play for Everton for 90 minutes. A proper right winger.
Everton, the toffee men. Almost got themselves into a sticky mess. In spite of having a proper right winger.
Like a proper right winger he dribbled.
Like a proper right winger he got his crosses in.
Today in history I hear the French went and elected a proper right winger
Today in history I heard what Donald Trump said. Republicans eh!!!
Like George Bush or Diddy David eh!!! Except Diddy's not a republican.
Gerard Deulofeu, a proper right winger. He was dangerous.
A lot of his crosses bombed though.
But I admired his bravery. The way he just walked into the box.
The way he just stepped over.
The way he flew his wing
Gerard Deulofeu. My idea of a right winger.
Football. It's all balls innit?
Blast! Just when I committed to life Parliament decides to take a vote on air strikes.
Blast! Just when I’m gettting on with living I’ve got to go off to a die in.
Blast! Parliament Square. December 2nd. A pathetic tranche of resistors move to a penned-off part of the road, at no one’s inconvenience, to lie down, act dead and yet somehow find the breath to chant ‘Don’t Bomb Syria’.
I’ve got my legs bent and pointing towards Bean who’s fully prostrate on the tarmac and I’m leaning on one arm thinking to myself. Not Dead Yet. I’m Not Dead Yet. And I’m thinking about Charlie Falconer and how he seems such a rotund and avuncular fellow who I could spend some time enjoying life with until I realise his size equates with his appetite for assisting the dying. T’was only Sunday on the tele he raised his inclination to push the trigger. I should have known then I could never dance the maypole with Charlie. Neither in December nor in May.
I’m still propped up playing the Not Dead Yet at a Die In in Westminster when I start to thinking on the living and those who like me prefer life and how we’ve never really had it. Merton’s Adult Social Services budget has been cut by more than 50% over 5 years and that’s before you consider inflation.
50% of monies put aside for independence, inclusion, integration, inopportunately inavailable in times of austerity and someone says one bomb wastes £50,000 just in the firing, never mind in the damage and the dying. £50,000 that’s half of what I dream of winning on a scratch card. I scratch cards. Bombs scratch lives. A white line on a chalk board. Another body on a road. Another corpse at the Die-In full of dying.
And yet i’m Not Dead Yet and i’m not sighing. Not started singing. Barely paused to consider chanting. I’m Not Dead Yet.
I listen to my lungs exhaling, my heart racing and pulse throbbing but I cannot call this living. This isn’t what I want to do. Lie on a cold road inside a barrier fence separating me from the house of Charlie.
Charles has lost some weight. Charles might think its such a waste that Charles has to wait before he can taste the blood that clings to his hands again. Charles is hungry. Charles is at the party. Charles and cheese and pineapple, bodies on a stick, bodies in the road. This is news from a Die-In for the dying.