To Nottingham
forty miles out and back
in a battered Beetle,
in early summer 83, singing
to Orange Juice and Marvin Gaye
parking up in Hockley where
the Carlsbro Music Centre
( now gone) had found
a cache of 60s Burns guitars, hung
in rows strung up by their necks
but vitally alive, waiting for us:
Hank Marvin Custom
Nu-Sonic
Tri-Sonic
Vista-Sonic
and at the back, in powder blue
with a white scratchboard
a Jazz Split Sound,
whammy bar,
three pickups
with four way switching,
Treble-Jazz-Splitsound-Wild Dog.
Wild Dog!
It didn’t matter that we couldn’t play.
Wild Dog!
which gave a snarling surfer twang
and looked
so
fucking
cool
we bought it anyway.
Published by colinhopkirk
Poet, writer, artist. Writing and performing in England, publishing anywhere. Member of Hexameter performing poets. Workshops, projects, cross-arts collaborations.
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Colin Hopkirk Poetry 
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Wonderful poem. I remember being in that shop and gazing up at the rows of hung guitars.
Who wouldn’t want the sound of Wild Dog at the flick of a switch?
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