He was of a kind that’s highly individual

and his feet were barely felt upon the earth;

not exactly selfless but so spiritual

though he hadn’t followed Jesus since Rebirth

 

as an Astral Avatar known as Sky Garden -

which hadn’t pleased his parents very much;

they’d have rather he remained their little Gordon

but while he tried to find himself they kept in touch.

 

At a party you could find him sat cross-legged

in a corner with his hands and knees just so,

and in case you hadn’t noticed where his head is

he’d hum a little mantra so’s you’d know.

 

He would often stay for days in that position

until the flies were caught as cobwebs formed;

people roused him but he didn’t seem to listen,

only uttering an intermittent Om.

 

At home his favourite reading was The Hobbit,

which he found such an effort to convey

so a book by Hermann Hesse sat in his pocket

that he’d produce when opportune, as if to say

 

I’m a seeker after esoteric knowledge

with a well-developed sense of the divine

who’s grown weary of the usual youthful follies

and is contemplating other states of mind.

 

No, I do not fit the middle-class straitjacket

and cannot be constrained by human hands -

he seemed to speak in capitals and brackets

(to show he’s one who Truly Understands).

 

I hadn’t seen the little shit for ages,

come Election time he’s opening our gate;

recognition dawned on me in stages –

from mahatma to the Tory candidate

 

eager to cut red tape and regulation

and remove all obligation from The Boss,

restore Faith and God throughout the nation.

I told him where I’d like to stick my cross.

 

From nirvana to the law of the jungle;

accomplishments forever on exhibit,

striving to be cock of the meanest dunghill:

the worship of the competitive spirit.