Twilight Interzone – a Poem about Notting Hill by Dave Russell


 Hello all good  people who read this blog

My old friend, musician and writer, Dave Russell sent me a poem he wrote about Notting Hill. He has been living there since the early sixties. I am re-posting his poem here. This is how Dave describes it:
“I wrote it in 1973; it was my vision of what I felt was the apocalypse of Hippie Notting Hill. I did a sung version of it, using the melody of Martin Carthy’s The Famous Flower of Serving Men.”

Twilight Interzone

They’ve got the damp, they’ve got the mice

In a crumbling, plastered paradise

Where boutiques sprout as fast

As anything you know.

The rich drift in their hardboard pads

Whilst some a cultivated sadness sport

In drooping sheepskin robes.

They’re gathered round to scream it free:

Ensconced in freedom’s poverty;

In cells they’re warmed, united –

Each in a crowd, each all alone

In the famous Twilight Interzone.

There shone some garish graffiti:

We are Gay: We are a Family –

Colville Terrace, number forty-two;

It left them wondering what to do

While Single Mums, with vocal fire

Challenge the Visitor’s desire

All morals above board to keep:

It is the boards whereon they sleep.

And some will play the acolyte,

In robes of yellow, robes of white;

They take their incense as they please

Black Afghan and Green Lebanese.

The groups will play their wah-wah vamps

And shred their eardrums on their amps;

“We’re gonna make it” – that’s their decree:

I wonder just what ‘it’ might be.

Scientologists exploit their plight,

Likewise do the Divine Light;

They hear the Rada Krishna sing;

They drop their trips, they do their thing.

Some preach of Lenin, Mao and Che

And reckon on the Judgement Day,

At their meetings they do not despair

Of the workers who are never there.

A cob of maize with leaves unfurled

Reveals to all the Seventh World;

We’ll contemplate a falling star

From our Mini-Minor Macro Car.

Beware the black alsatian’s roar,

Beware the rattling of your door,

Beware your rotten, creaking stair,

Your landlord did it fast repair.

The speculators have their dreams,

Their credit plans and paper schemes,

Their blatant lust, without disguise;

They rake the bread – they scrape the skies.

So if you think you’re going to be

A bulldozed, rootless refugee

Do not despair, for they do say

There’s space beneath the Motorway.

If you get fed up with this song,

It originates where you belong;

Go take your pills and make your moan

In the famous Twilight Interzone.

David Russell

Advertisements