DOUGLAS FIELD relishes the hard-boiled language, satire and humour of the third and last of the Harlem trilogy
Homecoming
Russ Litten
As I walked down my hometown streets
Freshly back from battle
I moved beneath no unfurled flags
No ticker tape or rattles
Silent save for stray cat bells
And milk floats crawling clinking
My eyes were shot my back was bowed
My feet were raw and stinking
And not one curtain flicked or twitched
And not one doorway opened
But as my footsteps trod the tar
My heart could not stop hoping
That the people would all welcome me
With arms and hearts embracing
And all the kids would crowd round me
With laughter on their faces
But all I saw was burnt out brick
And battered steel on windows
Piled up crap and shut down shops
And lives reduced to cinders
Signs that said the gas is off
And signs forbidding entry
I turned and walked back to the ship
And woke the sleeping sentry
Said take me back to burning sand
Take me back to shell-shocked skies
They’ve cut my country's throat apart
They’ve bled my country dry
So raise a glass for absent friends
Who survived but never came back
And fuck the Queen and her command
And fuck the Union Jack.
The bard invites readers to a gig, raps for Clacton, and lays out the Burnham-Hurzeler conundrum
by Rosie Jackson
TONY FOX invites readers to come and hear the story of the remarkable Liverpudlian International Brigader Alexander Foote


