Keith Moon

Did you know those skins you beat

so madly was your own?

Throw out that metronome -

dear boy -

don’t need that tick-tock here.

Timing's celestial, if nothing else.

If Osiris raced across the sky

in his chariot,

mou took the Rolls and chucked

brown ale and Moet empties

into the stratosphere.

Threw up over the Milky Way.

‘Jackson Bleeding Pollock,’

he'd maybe say.

Surfin across the stars cos

you loved that Beach Boys shit,

falling off the comets

as you go, mad bleeding nut.

You and Bonzo

rewrite the DNA

of the pounding stars.

Bongos, black holes,

and bloody shooting stars.