Joe Reynolds was the saxophonist and songwriter of the Coventry band Willow c 1973 /4. The band advertised in HOBO. Joe was in various other bands along the way that may surface in the band directory yet to come to this blog. Joe later recorded, I think, at Horizon studios and played on some early Two Tone tracks (Selecter I think). In 1973 Joe contributed some of his poems for my Communications books. Here are the poems -
FOR DAYLIGHT ONLY
Reflected spectrum on dew damp pane
Technicolour morning
Wisp away the sandman’s dust
Spraying wind to chill my face
Squealing seagulls whip the sky
Fingering foam claws the beach
Over the rock pool rapids.
lightening lizards
Moss covered rock wall walks
Spitting forks the bluebottle’s death
Sleepy venom adder
King of the anthill.
Red flamed circle kissed the crest
Rippling arrowheads across the waves
Captured second forgotten dusk
From the reaching cliffs echo
Cricket singing serenade the night
Tomorrow’s dawn will wake you
..............................
TRUTH
Behind the spot light
That shows
What’s for us
I find after looking, my truths
Folding themselves up
To look small
And hiding behind each other
And towards the sides
Of that light
The countless confusions
Struggling to find themselves
Through the mist
That limps above them.
..............................
PROSTITUTE
Through the alleys,
Night lights
Strike the slabs
And pierce the road
She walks ever watchful,
Dreaming
Of her non existing love
As profit
Rings the strings of her heart
Guilt and pride
Beneath her powder
Asking for her wage
Her mind all ablaze with dreams
As home she takes him
Pretence of not caring
Parrot fashion so straight
And upstairs
Her room
Nakedness in routine
That he must not see
A powder tear
As all her dreams
Of silk and bells
And old friends drive her forward.
And he unsuspecting
He mustn't’t know
As her cheeks tighten
As her fingers try to relax
In fear she holds her throat
With a rock
And smiles
As he dresses
His clumsy pants
She laughs so loud
He runs leaving his underwear
Behind
She picks it up
Still laughter.
A wardrobe full
Of past experience
And tears
If only one would stay
Could anyone ever come back
Or are they all married
Twisting
Her tears unfold
But listeners are as rare
As a unicorns horn
And who cares anyway
It’s her own stupid fault.
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