THOSE PORTHOLE BLUES AGAIN by Keith Armstrong.

It’s Tuesday again and the sun in the Stella is shining. Yellow dust fills the dappled Porthole with a Golden Fleece and the jazz, hot jazz, belts out raging from this pulsating lounge. The saints and ghosts of ancient seamen go marching in. Let the liquid trumpet pour out, my legs slide to the floor with the trombone lilt. Cry me this river, lurch for the ferry. I will ping the dart of a blue note through your soul. I am only a poet, a saxophone with words, an improvising shantyman thanking the landlord for still serving me: despite all this poetry slurping, this lovely drivel dribbling from my wicked Geordie tongue. Keith Armstrong. (See also - http://greatbritishartdebate.tate.org.uk/keith-armstrong-under-the-fantastic-sky/)