Beyond the Son - Koop

Dear, thanks for your letter

Sounds like you’re living the way you wanted

And that makes me smile

No, I hadn’t heard Bjorn Borg retired

Thank God one of us has a finger on an sporting pulse

No records left to collect your complaint

Well, Borg, Brolin and an unknown tennis trainer

Released something recently

No doubt your contacts in the Stockholm underworld

Can source that gem

Got back the other day to find the pub

On the corner had been burnt down

A dark London street story, I won’t burden you with now

Determined as I am to write you some life affirming shit

And not drag you an a regular trawl

Through the night seas to find what crawls

Yet I know they’re casting their lots to see

Who can get the old pubs' lease

And turn it into more luxury flats

Brick by brick the infiltration has begun

I feel moved to take a spray can

And ending step to the boarding

But as yet I can’t think of anything witty

Or on point enough to be up there

Yet the drunkards still own the park

D’s still there in your old flat making beats

And still owns the night

While this street can still shape shift

And make you quicken your pace on a late night return

So I suppose we still have time

But make no mistake my friend

I’m sure some barricade somewhere has started calling

I’m so sorry we missed each other

When you last came to town

I heard from Ndeye you sat with her

Telling stories for three hours while

And he put some extensions in a client’s hair

She told me about Cuba, cigars and sacred drums

Of arguments in bars, Dante

The color of Christ and the only true poet

The South China Seas

Remembered Fa Yung, the Buddhist master

«How can we obtain truth through words?»

When she quoted your, 'Immature writer’s plagiarize

Mature writers steal"

I was back in a bar in New York, Lower East Side

When you shouted that at

Maybe it was yourself, maybe I wasn’t there

Maybe it’s slipped down between the years

My memory isn’t exactly all that now

But my friend, you definitely have a convert there

And if you ever need your hair braiding

And I know that’s a long shot then she’s your girl

As my man scratch or maybe Rakim or maybe Monk

More probably all of them at some stage said

«You gotta check the new style»

I’m assuming you are still running

An old testament blades to hair ratio

And it hasn’t fallen rudely out on you

If that’s the scenario then my sincerest apologies

Saw Mr. Brenan in the Holloway road yesterday

Walked past with a bag of potatoes on his shoulders

I didn’t stop him he wouldn’t have a clue who the hell I was

He didn’t back then

When we’d spent month’s sleeping on his sofa

Explaining which one of his son’s friends we were

Well, that’s the price you pay

For any more than six children in the Holloway road area

I think of you often

And hope we see each other again as soon as possible

Until such time may the winds be at your back

The dice be kind and the gods turn the occasional blind eye

Sincerely yours

Beyond the clouds

Beyond the son

The rebel without a cause