Better Luck Next Time For Hove Musician Poem by Nick Burbridge

He decided to make his resignation public.
After two handfuls of blue-coated pills
and a bottle of Aqua Libra
he was bouncing off the kitchen walls
pulling the spice rack with him
to the floor and marinating
in turmeric, blood, broken glass.

The old woman downstairs
(who took care, later of his baffled dog
while his blood-pressure played hard to get
and he lay salted on an oddly aromatic bed)
stood on a stool and banged her ceiling with a broomstick.

Next door, the retired cleric
vexed by the merrymaking
shone a torch over the garden wall
but, faced with his tottering silhouette,
chose to pray over his biscuit and chocolate.

Two officers from the drug squad visited
when the ribbon on the taut rope lurched
irrevocably into dear life
and he was sent home to clear up,
but left soon afterwards,
disappointed by his lack of contacts
and the empty antihistamine blister packs.

It was a private party after all.
No column inches, not a worthy feature,
and certainly, for him, no art.
A few desultory phone-calls
as news drifted through tap-room and front-room:

Was there anything he needed?
He didn’t think so, it was kind to ask.
Time, perhaps, and a new kitchen chair
to ruminate on one more stab
at a release that failed to chart.