WHEN ELVIS PRESLEY DIED, THEY DIDN’T EVEN TRY TO BREAK IT TO ME GENTLY (1977)

Of the four poems I read at the Derwent Poetry Festival on Saturday, this one attracted the warmest comments.

WHEN ELVIS PRESLEY DIED, THEY DIDN’T EVEN TRY TO BREAK IT TO ME GENTLY (1977)

Huge capital letters on a newsagent’s board:

ELVIS DEAD – handwritten in black felt-tip –

And I gasped as I headed to Chadwell Heath railway station.

“What? WHAT!” I thought in my own capitals,

“How can this be true?” Beyond moody blue.

I felt like throwing a sickie, going back home,

Smashing an LP to pieces, finding a sharp end

And slitting my wrist, I was that pissed.

They didn’t even try to break it to me gently,

Just BAM!!  Right there for all to see. Heartbreak.

Later, after work, watching the news and pictures

Of scrawny Elvis, beautiful Elvis, fat Elvis,

I saw the beginnings of him, the wonder of him,

The decline of him, that rotten rock and roll thing,

A complete and utter waste of a king.