Ode to the British Invasion



Ode to the British Invasion


Savor the succulence of Strawberry Fields

The sweetest of the sentiments blooms and builds

The guitar has powers that it wantonly wields

Brothers in their bands are new-age guilds


The clarion call of London lassoed all America

Every beachhead of sands of silica

The tidal waves of sounds blasted the ephemera

Of John Wayne and GI Joe blundering chimera


When Jagger and Jones made swords of songs

That sliced and slew the wars and all their wrongs

Their anthems were banners that always belongs

The bombast and beauty it pulses, prolongs


Lennon and McCartney were the angels of life

Nursing and subverting, making student strife

And every sweet girl wanted to be their wife

And for them I’m my brothers’ true blue knife


They spread a scarlet stain of Ruby and her Tuesdays

Made us roam in routes of uncharted pathways

Against the crass and the coarse it nobly inveighs

It brightens all the drabness of the flannels and grays


The hair was long, the hips humped and thrusted

The Beat was something you adored and trusted

You smoked the herb and were bullied and busted

Your beaten body had the consistency of custard


But Street Fighting Man comes to the rescue

Revolutions rise and devour anew

The Kings and the Cops won’t have a clue

And another invasion is long overdue


Copyright, David Gottfried, 2013



The Autumn of 1978

It was a zephyr of a semester

20 credits, all arrogant A

In my band I fancied me Jagger

All my emanations  on display


I was the faggot furious

Macho, blithe, seething pretty

Calculating and Injurious

But the heart harkened to the friendly


I ran, I raced, I rushed the border

Of propriety — and pierced demure hemline

The blushing rose given no quarter

And So I lay sated and supine


My master and mistress were music

Melodic lifesavers of Love

You took it like a lozenge

And all the World a Dove

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2012






Diving into the purple sea of acid hot and sweet

The manifold colored canopies, John Lennon’s heated treat

And if perchance on some little psychedelic street

His majestic presence I should conjure-up and meet


I would bow low and kiss his feet most willingly

For he is my English King; I am his servant free

The pulsating electric sounds fill me with glee

They ignite, excite, and I move most exuberantly


Through lanes of pennied plenty that shimmer in the dark

Afternoon of sultry sun redolent with the spark

Of waves of sound that mesmerize and never miss their mark

To that fevered clarion call my heart will always hark


The Royal Court of England is alive, it thrives, it’s well

Despite Charles and Di and that silly, self-made hell

Its scepter is no gilded stick that pirouettes pell mell

But a guitar weeping gently with strange words it needs to tell


But soon those Guitars of glory will no longer cry

Instead the sound will surge and to our delight defy

The crass and coarse commercial sorts who thieve and always


And saturate our ears with talk of what money can buy


Belting-out the Beauty of Byron, Shelly and Keats

A beat of riot and revelry triumphantly repeats

Like ocean waves crashing and smashing old defeats

The seventies and eighties, those dastardly retreats


The foam atop ocean waves screams like a teenage girl

Riding on resplendent waves in a concert’s wondrous whirl

The banners, bands and bombast will furiously unfurl

And we will all be swept up in a vast Stawberried Swirl


Copyright, David Gottfried, 1995







Suzanne, so sweet, so beautiful

She whirls as on a carousel

Her hair, a crown, a parasol

The blondness, gorgeous, bountiful


It sparkles, shimmers, always shines

Electric charges so sublime

Are radiated all the time

They prick like a kind porcupine


She dances, prances, to the beat

Of riot-rock with furied feet

Exuding such panache, conceit

The staid make haste, are in retreat


She never, ever, would sit still

Her brother’s canvass did fulfill

The manifesto she did instill

Parade the promise of the will


To love the aesthetic so kinetic

The vibrant and vibrating lines

That shout a sonnet of the sonic

The sound and vision intertwined


Copyright, David Gottfried, 1998

Inspired by the Words ‘very, very bright’ in a Beatles’ Song

I believe

In the blood

Of a gun

In the middle of the night

Spurting red rage,

very very bright


I believe in the hate

That ablates and creates

A spark that stimulates

Then a fire satiates


I bludgeon with the bellows

Of undying disbelief

I erect the ghoulish gallows

And guillotine my grief


I salivate with sacrilege

I sing my demon songs

I plunder all your privilege

I right the regal wrongs


To slice the poisoned heart

Of a judge and a priest

To storm a castle’s rampart

And make a king deceased


The Courts enrobed in marble

The Laws inscribed with spleen

Oh, to turn it into rubble

And realize this riot dream


Their money is all stolen

Their work is all bogus

My hate is quite molten

My gun is in focus
Copyright, David Gottfried, 2005


An Ode to the Youth of David Gottfried

I had the face of Jagger

The hair of Brian Jones

I walked with a swagger

You wished you were my clones


My aura of audacity

My blitzkrieging sun

My otherworldly energy

Would singe and scream and stun


I walked off of the lyric sheet

Of a Lou Reed song

My subversion was complete

I was religiously wrong


I could eat a strawberry

And see John Lennon’s face

Make a vaulted sanctuary

Of dreams you couldn’t erase


I savored weed that wormed its way

Into my commodious mind

The feral, sultry night held sway

New vices were divined


I drove my cars like mighty tanks

And sped quite unsurpassed

Other cars of lesser ranks

Were smartly charged, harassed


I howled in the bowels

Of sordid basement apartments

Betrothed  to sainted struggles

Where masses marched in torrents


Of rain and hail and snow and  sleet

Of every emotion enlarged

All discretion was in retreat

My lava was discharged

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2010

The Grand Mania of Mick Jagger



David Gottfried

Rubied in the Tuesdays, the black and purple pouts
Imbibing illicit elixirs in copious amounts
Preening and screaming and annihilating doubts
Jagger’s on a roll, his army charging, routs

All is red and purple, violent violet hues
The beat is hard and driving, the energy accrues
The mass is in mayhem, Pentecostals in pews
Reveling in vibrant, immoral avenues

He wears scarfs of scarlet, rampaging on the stage
Exuding and extruding, a manic, joyous rage
He burns with a fever you cannot hope to gauge
From this warlock’s spell, you cannot disengage

His Sister is Morphine, his cousin is cocaine
When he speaks he scowls with eminent disdain
His hair’s a black flower that does not need the rain
Belittling the sun, the plenitude of the plain

His legs come from a cheetah or another feral beast
Velocity and vim are always waxed, increased
When he strides he rises, as certainly as yeast
He dances like a shaman, an animistic priest

He has all the grandeur of a brilliant British Lord
Ruling with arrogance over the galling horde
His breeches are stunning, his form is adored
The teeming teenage girls, are mesmerized and floored

The concert is a mass, the guitar is a scepter
The music a liturgy of the adolescent sector
The stereo, a prayer book, for the pious collector
And Jagger, a madman, for a time our lord and master

Copyright David Gottfried 2003