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  Desmond Swords
      Bono St John and Sir Paul

By the telepathic act of wish fulfillment came Lonnie
Donegan's Bridgeton Skiffle and Bridie Gallagher's

Donegal sean nůs, and live from St Peter's garden
rock gods in pale elemental form found

through friendship, when John finished a daytime
set, stepped off the back of a lorry-stage and first

met Paul at the fete of a church where Eleanor
Rigby's history was sealed after the night gig

in a place philosophers preach freindship. The church
hall Woolton rocked to Berry and Presley direct

from the Quarrymen. Lennon's mob on home
turf; a plusher suburb than Speke,

manor. And thus their partnership began,
where music rolled melodic and silent Sophia's

poetic hand in a Mersey omphalos, t
he Well
of Seigas beneath hazel, dealt soft dappled showers

of sienna light upon reed and sedge as it wavered
and rippled in ageless dumb wisdom, folding

through strings in a wind chime of history that ring
the bell our mind cannot muffle. Animal voice

the fictional eye-witness woven within, who'll rock
outpour and apportion in proper form enobling

myths her chief creators mouth in works of air.
They accomplish detachment and sight the island

goddess of memory with grey gods Honey Gob Ogma
and Amergin the White-knee, who gift men fully, half

or none, knowledge of Eber and Eremon.
Their wheel spun diverse in chance as death spells

nurture philosophies, draft and balance
humanity's egg in cosmic incubus and lie right-side up

no short cuts or improper attempts at self wisdom.
Just Ogma's Art and logical gods' weaving a question

on rock 'n roll rooting in a person. If the bow
and lyre both are strung through good body Sir Paul

or the soul of bono Saint John?


Some say all who knew he did nothing without soul
know John learnt the art of rock and roll with Paul.

They are symbiotic, in the body of all fans'
cauldrons tilting or not, and those possessing

a Revolver, Abbey Road and Rock Roll Music Volume
One, will know the word of John and holler along

to Bad Boy, Twist and Shout, I Call Your Name
and imagine the reality of his orbiting sound-force

whispering a knowledge they hear via him
destiny's child filled fully upright decoding

ancestral music chosen to colour hunanity
and programme. Sir Paul singing Long Tall Sally

I Saw Her Standing There, Kansas City
and I Wanna Be Your Man, was destined to come

through John, past I wanna Hold Your Hand
beyond a void with pre-requisite

to the widest reach of experience and easily ascend
in oracular shift, one cauldron side-slanting another

on it's lips, both stir in a fictional pot, no fire or hell
below us, above us only thought.

Imagine the brotherhood of man, its easy if you find
one body and soul, who remotely taught all less

able at turning a rhyme bag born slanted how
to become gods, the good Sir Paul and bono Saint John

who eye from the planetary rhythm in people
of bardcraft; reveal to a poet searching for tropes

each time he'll rock or fold in silence an epithet
lofty in a life-pan filled with sung event

sing in a voice fully effable, balanced on it's back
by sorrow, ineluctable mimesis, poetical process

of time, trial,
hope, unaired draughts of Sophia
from the hearth of mystery and mythical Mersey

wisdom of rock from Woolton and Speke, to fleet
with their reflection in a well of friendship, upright.




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