No Go

(It’s no go the original and it’s no go the plagiarist,

no go for inspired tat and no go for writing this.)

Your no goes, Louis, went through all the wild and sheeny years:

I never once confused the Laird Of Phelps with Jake the Peg.

Though the peep-show ticket let me see an extra leg

in Amsterdam across the sea from Larkin’s miserable Hull.

Spin the bottle

strip the willow-y girl

‘til they’re empty of the spirit

of St Louis of Carrickfergus on the Lough.

And the music played no-go,no-go, a bagpipe tango

as I sped through the verse and worse that stood to the left

with a jump to the right, with tomes of intellectual heft

en-route to radio days and hands of friendship scripts to East and West.

Kiss the milkmaid,

leave each shellac-ky wife

‘til they’re each the image of each other

and St Mary, Mother of God and Catholics.

Your no goes, Louis, go not well with Anglican reserve,

which I thought we might have in common sense or ground,

although the taste-free jokes and playground rhyme sound

in and out of lines that you and I have written once.

Squeeze the buttock,

feel the jollop-y flesh

‘til we’re full of spunk and vinegar

and St Augustine’s chastity-for-later