Crime of The Century

Crime of the Century

Princip shook, he sweated, he steadied, he aimed, he fired, he fired again and then he ran, he ran, he ran.

For now he was, the most wanted man.




The bullets pierced, Franz fell, Sophie slumped cradled unborn child her swelléd bump. Screams rang out across the World, with shouts and cries, flags unfurled.

And then the lie, cried Owen-“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori”. A call to arms, Pro patria mori, Pro patria mori. To death and then remembered glory.

Die for your country in this corner of a foreign field of rats and lice, mud and gas, eight million dead, what a price! More wounded still, more men than mice.

The crime took place one summer’s day; Princip shook, he sweated, he steadied, he aimed, he fired, he fired again and then he ran, he ran, he ran. He was the most wanted, now forgotten man.

Lisa Climie 2012

Mr Mojo Risin -Jim Morrison

Mr Mojo Risin

He lit my fire, he reached within, my soul to take, the Lizard King.

Through the Doors of perception he cried,

"I’m the crawling King snake baby,

I’m the Changeling; I roam the City at night.

I live up town, I live down town, I live all around. 

My star is bright".

He lit my fire, he reached within, my soul to take, the Lizard King.

Florida child, he returned, with leather pants thrust, angry chant, Yeah! "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon now Touch me, babe" - and then the bust.

In self destruct he headed west to the La women

He loved the best.

He lit my fire, he reached within, my soul to take, the Lizard King.

His Angel face began to change, to chubby cherub with grizzly beard. His voice like gravel lowered

in range. Riding on the storm he cried again, “There is a killer on the road”, through the driving rain.

He lit my fire, he reached within, my soul to take, the Lizard King.

To Paris, a poet to be, in streets of rebel Glory.

He loved her madly; she could be his guide,

While he tried to break through to the other Side.

Now finished with records and tours,

and so he had closed the Doors.

He lit my fire, he reached within, my soul to take, the Lizard King.

He was here and there too short a while, a demon haunting his full lip smile.

He joined a band of poets and painters, lying cold in 

Pere lachaise. A tourist hive,

With the chilling words, “no one gets out of here alive”.

He lit my fire, he reached within, my soul to take, the Lizard King.

The cave of the drunken Prince

He had called his apartment: “The cave of the drunken Prince.”

I smiled the first time I heard it and had been drawn in.

Later, as I heard him repeat, the obviously well worn line,

to so many others, I felt cheated.

The words had grown stale and worn as in time had he.

No longer did they swarm to hear his tales of Warhol –

His part in Andy’s15 minutes of fame, the stories of Studio 54.

 “Johnny be good, Johnny be good” they had - chorused,

as he held court at the bar.

“No, I’m Johnny too bad” he’d reply in his lazy southern drawl and then launch into another performance. I was captured with all the other fresh faces.

“I’ll never forget Warren’s face when I said ‘Sorry honey can’t let you in.”

“Don’t look so hard done by, baby. Why I didn’t even let in lil’ ol’ Frank or Woody”

“Frank may have done it his way, but not at the 54 on opening night he didn’t.”

He would laugh loud and hard, throwing his head back, hair in a tangle

bowing it forward, he’d run his fingers through those golden locks, and when he looked up again the curls fell perfectly around his cherubic face.

His deep blue eyes flashed with pleasure as they met our wide eyed expectant attention.

 He was hooked to the attention as much as all the drugs and booze he consumed - and of course the sex.

Spotting his prey for the night, me, my innocents sparkling, attracting him by its pure light, he moved in for the kill, he continued:

“Singing with Liza, on top of the bar, New York, New York,

 so loaded I could hardly stand”

“Tell them about Bianca,” came a voice from the crowd.

“Don’t think I will ever help a naked lady up on a white horse again. You have no idea how hard, it’s not every day you’re cheek to cheek with Bianca’s butt”

“She rode in across the dance floor; it was knee high in glitter”

 “I just headed for the coke stash, waited for her to finish so I could strut my stuff to Saturday Night fever”    

 “Move over girlfriend, Johnny’s here now,”

He waved a dismissive hand and laughed again. By then he had me firmly in his grip, well and truly. Like being caught in a honey trap, I swooned to the smell of his sweet breathe.

Like Johnny and so many others, I had come to the place where at last I thought I belonged.  Where I could be myself for the first time, dare to dream, free at last from those who didn’t understand, who disapproved.

Free to love.

Yes these were the golden days.

The days that gave freedom, to music, fashion and art.

Sex was liberating, fun and abundant.

Cocaine, not addictive they’d said, was every where for the taking.

There was even love too if you were lucky.

And then, and then it came. Silent and deadly. Tearing a swath through our number. None of us knowing what it was, or why it chose so many of us.

I wasn’t one of the first but I watched as one after another they fell, like ten pins.

Then Johnny too, his face grew thin; he covered up the marks with make-up.

His strong body turned weak. His blood black and whispery in his veins,

Where was the laughter now Johnny? 

No time left for laughing, just fear-fed tears when no one was around.

He still tried to use his charm but now it seemed predatory.

It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt anyone.  But he did, over and over.

I Know he came to hate himself, .Johnny couldn’t bear to be alone, couldn’t bear to look at what he had become.

And now as I watch, his blood running hot and fast, then slowing to a trickle, the smell acrid, strong, is overwhelming.

I sit and I wait. I look at his hair, now greying at the roots, it lays limp and sweat sodden.

His body grows cold and hard. Outside winter air freshens for snow.

I wait for the police to come, stroke his brow and whisper

 “Sleep sweet prince, sleep now.”

Bob and I revisited

Bob and I

 

At first it was Marc with his prehistoric curls and his hot,
Hot Love awakening the same in me.
Then it was Harry saying he couldn’t live without me.

I can’t live Without You either, I replied, over and over.

George had left my childish love behind him and said,
 “I have found My Sweet Lord”.
 I had not, even though I chanted with him again and again.

Lou transformed me from child to adolescent.
He told me it was a Perfect Day for a Walk on the Wild Side.
It was. I did. I was eager to. Ready to. Took no persuading.

Then Jimmi screamed and screeched and called out loud to me.
 “Hey Joe, oh no, you are the Voodoo Chile. Come with me,
as I walk All along the Watch Tower”.
So I did. Like Hamlet’s ghost I followed him.

Bob had been there all the time but now, at last, I heard him, would always hear him.
Come, he said, and listen.
The answer he said, the answer is Blowin’ in the Wind.
I listen. I heard. He was right. It was.

Can you see he said, can you see, The Times They Are a-Changing?
I looked. I saw. They were. We were too; we said out loud, 
we weren’t going to work on Maggie’s Farm no more.
But they didn’t heed us.

It felt like it came from deep beneath the earth. I yearned and I wept, for I had lost it.

“Yooou’ve got the Subterranean Homesick Blues” he said.
“Yooou’ve lived your life Like A Rolling Stone”. Yes I said,

But, I would not feel so all alone, I said, as everybody must get stoned.

You must be the Rainy Day Woman he said.
Must I, was I ?

I flew to NYC, Lennon was there. I travelled the subway, I stood outside Waverly Theatre.
Where is it I cried?
There he said. Look closely. look clearly. Look Positively, 4th Street.

Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window he asked.
I could, I said, but if I did, if I use my arms and legs, it might ruin me.
One of Us Must Know he said. Sooner or later, One of Us must know.

Limousine to Blackbush with me, my fog, my amphetamines and my pearls.
Beside a man who says he loves me.

I look up. I say with my eyes,
"I Want You, I Want You, I want you so bad".

You so close, Lay lady lay; lay across my big brass bed
you sing.

I will, I will I say. I will until the break of day.

Your clothes are dirty but your hands are clean.
You say I’m the best thing you have ever seen.

You take Just Like a Woman, you whisper.
Ache Just like a Woman. You make love Just Like a Woman.

Yes I say, but I break just like a little girl.

I always have, looking for love, accepting anything but.

Baby, Stop Crying, baby, please stop crying, you plead.
But I can’t, I stand in a crowd so alone,
tears hot and stinging streaking my face.

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true you said
May you always be courageous, stand up and be strong.
May you stay Forever Young.

I shall I said. I have I said. I will I say.



She is all but gone

She is all but gone

Knowing how many chromosomes where in her brain or how many were dying every day as she disappeared didn’t help.

They had said it is like a record with groves, her memory would disappear last in first out, until the needle reached the centre and the last groves of memory played.

Her life as a child her brother as they played, their father home in the morning black with coal. She had talked fondly of these memories, hard but fair when she had been here with me. Is it a little comfort that happy childhood memories would be her last?

 No knowledge of the man she had loved for 60 years and the children they bore.These all gone now.
She didn’t know me, called me Joe, and smiled. I smiled back but inside the tears flowed.

Now fear approached, and what for me?

Joyous Memories

My little hand held so tight as the bus drew up, all the “big “ children got on, waving goodbye with my one free hand,

I longed for the day I would be able to join them. Although I was only four, I was assured I would be able to join my siblings at Burwash Primary that September. September? September I wonder what September was and if it would be tomorrow? No my mother had explained patiently as we walked towards my favourite place, Alice’s Café. “It’s is only June now, so it’s another three months yet”.

Still none the wiser I had lost interest as I have noticed another person my size also heading towards Alice’s. Equally keen it seemed, as she pulled on her mothers hand with both of hers. I looked upwards and saw a friendly face smiling down, “Are you going to Alice’s too? This is my little girl Angela” I had nodded shyly in response. Angela and I had then eyed each other up, neither of us it transpired had met many children our own size before and had felt a mixture of solidarity and anxiety, anxiety that the other may somehow steal our own mother away from us? This in mind we had both held on a little tighter and hid behind our mums for safety while they, oblivious, had begun to chat.

 “I’m Jane, and this is Lisa” my mother had offered. “Nice to meet you, I’m Joy, and this is my Angie. We have just moved here from Orpington”, “Well we only moved here six months ago, we live at the top of that lane across the road at Kingsdown. Fancy a cuppa Joy” with that we had all headed into the green wooden hut with its red corrugated iron roof that was Alice’s.

As we entered I looked again at Joy. She was well named with a warm kind face, framed by mid brown hair that curled up as it reached her collar. She had a soft full figure and was modelling a pretty summer dress.  I had relaxed a little and turned my attention to Angie. We both offered each other a small shy “hello” with a smile, and then got down to the serious business of eyeing the cakes and buns displayed in the big wooden tray next to the counter were Alice stood.

“Well girls what can I get you” said Alice. Angie and I stood side by side at the wooden counter on tiptoes, our little fingers holding on to its rounded edge tightly, “A Swiss bun, please” we chorused, we looked at each other with surprise and in that moment it was tacitly agreed, we were firm friends.  Alice beamed down at us; her snow white hair, side parted was scrapped back from her face and tucked behind her ears. She wore and old fashioned floral dressed coved by a white piny. I adored Alice and beamed back, Angie and I held out both hands to take the small plain white plates that held our treasure, long buns covered in sticky white icing. 

Our mums held their big mugs of tea and chatted.  It turned out that Joy and Angie lived down the “under lane” the road which ran down hill behind the café.  It also transpired that Joy had another daughter, Jane, who was the same age as my sister Sarah.

Jane and Sarah like Angie and I became inseparable friends. Joy and her husband Mick would come to Kingsdown for drinks parties held by my parents. Mick would often give them a lift to our local pub “The Wheel” as, neither of my parents drove. They would play darts and drink while we kids played outside with our coke and crisps, occasionally peering through the windows when more supplies were needed.

 Years later, Joy would tell me that my father had introduced her to Gin and orange on her first visit to our house “David offered me a drink when I arrived one afternoon, I didn’t have a clue what to have, I wasn’t a big drinker especially not in the day time, so he made me a gin and orange, more gin than orange I think as I was more than a little tipsy when I left. I remember thinking how glamorous and sophisticated it was, drinking gin on a week day afternoon!” she had said as she smiled back at the memory.

 That day I had tried to tell her how important she had been to me. She had always cooked lovely food and served it at actual set meal times, an alien experience for me.  When she served the food, if one of her girls made a fuss about it she would say “why can’t you be like Lisa, she will eat anything I put in front of her, she never turns her nose up at it” I felt special then, and I was so grateful for every meal, sandwich or snack she ever made for me, for at home food had always been a hit or miss affair. I tried to tell her this as we sat with our tea at the Burwash Common summer fete, “nonsense she said, what nonsense” I just smiled and laughed a little inside, typical Joy I thought, ever down to earth and no fuss.

I spent half of my childhood at Woodside farm. With its white pebble dash front it was a sweet friendly faced house with light blue framed windows.  Joy was at its heart, cooking and cleaning and often shouting for us to come in as our play outside had gone past the agreed time.  Angie and I would immediately jump on our bikes and shoot off down the lane towards Parsons Farm as if we hadn’t heard.” I will crown you two”, she bellowed, then gave one of her big sighs as we disappeared out of sight.  She never did crown me.

Angie’s bedroom almost always had a “put u up” bed in for me. In the winter there would be a paraffin heater hissing near us as we shivered in our beds trying not to give into to sleep.  On really cold nights Joy would give us hot water bottles and a warm milky drink.

When we had finished the Cocoa we would retrieve our cold hands and snuggle down holding the sheets and blankets tightly up around our necks right up to our noses and giggle.  “Quiet in there, go to sleep” we would be quite as we heard her steps retreat then laugh out loud...we would hear her come back up the stairs open the creaking door, then she would sigh extra loudly as way lay completely still and quiet with eyes tightly closed. “You two would try the patience of a saint” she muttered under her breathe as she closed the door again to more giggles.

One day a little baby appeared, I had no idea how? This white/blond haired arrival was named Lizzie and it turned out was Angie’s new sister.  I don’t think Angie and I were too interested as we had committed firmly to being tomboys and small pink faced babies that cried a lot were not our thing! More often than not as she grew I would see Lizzie sitting on Joy’s hip. Joy had the perfect hips for the job, they swayed rhythmically as she walked, a loving arm holding little Liz firmly in place as she hung up the washing, cooked dinner or stood at the bus stop as Angie and I were now the ones that got on the bus to school.

Greek Odyssey

The room was dark but even with my eyes closed I could sense the piercing sunlight and its unforgiving heat trying to enter through every crack available in the small room.

I lay there in an all too familiar state having just come to, confused and with a deep feeling of dread right in the pit of my stomach. I began my ritual of a rather perverse sort of relaxation technique in reverse. Starting from my toes and working my way up to my still closed eyes. I checked firstly that I could move all body parts and also for any areas of pain on the way.

Today’s exploration revealed pain in my right knee and the palm of my right hand, a fall most likely, I quickly concluded. There was also some pain in both upper arms and my back ached badly, I felt in no hurry to try to move. The source of these aches and pains I left as an open verdict! Opening my eyes was always the worst part as I never quite knew what view might greet me; it was therefore always the last act in this routine. My friend from Australia, Shonna, once asked as I lay on her floor motionless but awake “Are ya checkin ya eyelids for holes?”.

On a good day, I would find no holes and at the ceremonial eye opening, would see somewhere familiar and hopefully find I was where I was meant to be. On a bad day, however, I would be greeted by an unfamiliar ceiling and often an unfamiliar person in close proximity to me and I would have to either, slide out of the bed searching the room through bleary eyes to find both my clothes and the exit, without waking the sleeping stranger. Or, having given the stranger the once over, thought perhaps it worth hanging around to get more acquainted over breakfast.. The worst sight on opening my eyes was to see the open sky above, whilst feeling a concrete bed below me, alfresco style so to speak, wondering, as I contemplated the situation, what the people passing by me on their way to work thought of this sight. Worst of all by far though, was coming to in a police cell or hospital as this meant things had really gotten out of hand and that there would be people to deal with, consequences! In these circumstances I always felt like a shame filled worm with lipstick, wishing I could just slither away as quickly as possible.

During the closed eye part, while completing the body check, the mind would sluggishly try to piece together a).quite what had happened the night before and b).what the hell I was supposed to be doing today. On this occasion it seemed even more sluggish than usual, I gave in and opened my eyes one at a time and looked for clues.

Looking round from my still prone position I quickly realised that I was in fact, in the studio room Royce and I had spent the last two weeks holidaying in. This explained the heat and that noise that had hammered away at me like Woody wood pecker, the Cicada’s. The Greek Island of Zakinthos in June was in the mid 80’s. I looked and saw Royce’s bed was empty and her bags were packed, “Shit!” I said, sitting bolt up right, “Ouch, my bloody knee”, “Ow, my bloody back actually”. I had suddenly remembered we were leaving on the ferry today. The memory of the ferry trip over came rushing back. What a nightmare that had been; leaving the Athens port of Piraeus at 2am arriving at Zante (as the brochure had cutely named it) at 4pm that day. I had roasted on the deck feeling really sick for most of the journey and had crawled off I wishing I was back home and ready for a stiff Metaxa.

I had, however, soon settled into island life, indulging in my three favourite competitive sports; flirting, drinking and sunbathing with a little Greek salad on the side. Royce and I had hired mopeds, didn’t seem to matter that you had not past any sort of driving test in any country, and helmets, well they were optional and played havoc flattening any decent early 80’s perm. With our new-found transport we discovered, among other beauty spots, the wonderful and hidden Turtle bay, with its resident hippy commune. In their unspoilt haven they had built a cafe serving up delicious and, more to the point, cheap veggie fayre, to anyone who discovered this idyll. They also demonstrated nude sunbathing, without any of the British sense of embarrassment.

My thoughts swung back to our departure which was apparently imminent. I quickly hobbled and moaned my way about the small studio room, rather more of a garden shed with French windows and a veranda really, grabbing at clothes and slinging them in my bag, no idea what time it was or when Royce would re-appear. Finally, job done, I collapsed back on the bed and gulped down some luke-warm water which was perched next to some equally warm red wine, which, although I considered briefly I dismissed despite being so, so thirsty. I grabbed a few useful looking pills that were scattered on my make-shift bedside table, they looked like they might do the trick and I them down with the last few drops of water. I let out a sigh of relief. Ok I’m ready.

As I waited for the pills to work and Royce to return, I thought back to the night before. Royce and I had agreed to meet the two Dennises. I smiled as I remembered how surprised we were when Dennis One had told us his name, not very Greek after all, then when Dennis Two appeared, well it was obviously some sort of joke, turns out half the male population of Zante was call Dennis after their patron saint. They had been equally confused by Royce and I as she called me James, “This is a boy’s name,” chorused the Deni. It had taken a while to explain that these were our surnames. There was no way I was even going to tell them of my evil parents who double barrelled their surnames James and Bond and had then cruelly named me Jesse!

We had agreed to go with them, us two on our moped and them sharing theirs. We had hoped to meet up with the rather more dashing Nico later. He had a proper motor bike and a very cool leather jacket and equally cool long dark hair. Our destination was Turtle bay. In the two weeks we had been there we had never dared attempt to descend the rugged rock and sand hills to reach it at night, “Why not?” Royce had said. “It’s our last night and the boys will be with us. It will be fine; in fact it will be more than fine, an adventure.” We had both laugh at the thought of what another Royce/James adventure might entail.

Suddenly a feeling of unease crept over me, flashes of memory like still photos filled my mind, as if someone was throwing them down like cards from a pack, one after another; me holding on tight to Royce as she drove, not down hill but up , the twilight bay, the Hippy Café, its coloured fairy lights, unknown faces, hands passing glasses, music echoing, a memory in my ears like sea in a shell, Nico’s handsome face, Nico laughing, Royce dancing, Dennis One shouting, Dennis Two on their bike, his face looking back with fear. Now it turned into a cinefilm. Dark waves crashed, I lay on a rock hard and cold, my back twinged as it remembered the pain, I saw the hand break the glass on the rock; I felt the weight of a body on mine and the warmth of the blood..Royce pulling me, trying to push the body off me..As I broke free I stumbled to the water to wash the crimson stains off, “James, James” Royce had said in an ever urgent hushed voice “James, It’s time to go”

At that moment the door of our studio opened letting the full blast of the sun in and in the frame of door stood Royce, silent, ashen faced as her fear-filled eyes met mine. I knew, Yes it really was time to go.