Peter Pegnall
5. Theo Thunder Struts and frets: beats out wild times on his Premier drum set. Frost capped forests in Saskatchewan freeways on the West Coast, shotguns and Harleys glasshouses jam-packed with weed, head high. Or just a room upstairs in Lisle Street, fifteen minutes for fifty quid, dissatisfaction guaranteed and it don’t play the blues don’t smudge his dancin’ shoes his daily bad news and still he refuses to walk Their Way. When I met him first, he looked perplexed, squirmed and smiled, prepared himself not to belong. A baby, mislaid his false front teeth enlisted his fellow service users on a bootless search, party game without a prize. It seems that his bravado is a balloon, bright, moon-like, pricked all to easily ragged in the Horse Chestnut. Is it too late to come to earth, John? Have you mashed your mind so much that even the green cockatoos in Richmond Park will not engage in dialogue?
21