<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Robert Harding is Dead<\/strong><\/p>\n Turn all the locks, put down the phone, Where were you when you heard? Robert lived a full life, As a young man he experienced numerous orgasms, He worked casually and as a professional, Rob achieved a lot academically. He worked with several professors and a Cabinet Minister, He drove a nice car with a V5 engine. He made an investment in a small flat in West London, Close to Robert’s heart was his love of travel. It helped him unravel. From England Rob went all over, Malaysia, Thailand, Singapore, beloved India**. See the key to his heart was thrown away. And while you think of him in death, In the hospital bed, beneath the shroud, *Stokowski’s arrangement of JS Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue<\/em>, Coldplay’s Beautiful World<\/em> and I’m a Man<\/em> by Muddy Waters will be played during the service, Will you, You must be joking! <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Robert Karl Harding<\/strong> writes fiction and poetry. He has been lucky enough to have had 6 short stories published. Another, I Am the North Pole<\/em>, comes out later in 2013. His first novel, Made In England<\/em>, is currently being read by an agent. His second, Cape Wrath<\/em>, has just gone past 200 pages. The third, Bad Country<\/em>, stands at 45 pages.\u00a0 This is his blog.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Robert Harding is Dead Turn all the locks, put down the phone, I’ve something to say , about someone you’ve known, Robert Harding is dead* He’s passed away, His fuse has blown. Where were you when you heard? Withdrawing money? Parking at the kerb? Fingering a book, Reading the blurb? Robert lived a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6263","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6263","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6263"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6263\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6266,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6263\/revisions\/6266"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6263"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6263"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6263"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nI’ve something to say ,
\nabout someone you’ve known,
\nRobert Harding is dead*
\nHe’s passed away,
\nHis fuse has blown.<\/p>\n
\nWithdrawing money?
\nParking at the kerb?
\nFingering a book,
\nReading the blurb?<\/p>\n
\nTried hard at school,
\nthough he could have done a lot better, with more concentration and not have been so easily distracted, not had so many dreams about being a doctor or lawyer,
\naccept it kid, you’re black,
\nyou’re gonna be poor.<\/p>\n
\nand boned some beautiful girls,
\nhe had a varied sex life,
\nstudded, it must be said, with emergent troughs of strife.<\/p>\n
\nThough in between he enjoyed periods of slackerdom.
\nOnce upon a time he taught,
\nEveryone else.
\nHimself,
\nNaught.<\/p>\n
\nBut ended up treating his brain chemically,
\ndismally,
\nHe achieved his ambition of getting published.
\nThough most of what he wrote was rubbish.
\nHe had three research reports, one article on science fiction,
\ntwo stories and a poem published with bad diction.<\/p>\n
\nmen of influence, all stiff and sinister.<\/p>\n
\nand had a sweet nephew,
\nname o Benjamin.<\/p>\n
\nfrom money given him by someone who loved him once,
\nfolded in the envelope,
\naccusations of ‘ponce’.<\/p>\n
\nIf you see what I mean.<\/p>\n
\nall over Europe and back to Dover,
\nMany times,
\nAnd to long haul climes,
\nLike Venezuela, Mexico, Costa Rica,
\nto many he was a seeker.
\nBut it was no use his life was over,
\nhe gradually got weaker,
\nhis rock was eroded.<\/p>\n
\nBut by then he was living in Numidia,
\nOr was it Shangri-La, Xanadu or Hell?
\nHell. That was the closest.<\/p>\n
\n‘Just like that!’ I hear a comic say.<\/p>\n
\ncrossing the darkened vale,
\nremember him as a body of light,
\nwhose heart burned brightest,
\nit’s best you know he didn’t write this.<\/p>\n
\nthat shrunken body of his turned over, just one last time,
\nswivelled and floated and took a look at the mourners,
\nlike Rusty James,
\nthere was no one to blame,
\nfloated above them all,
\nputting some in his mind’s cardboard box, letting others roam free.
\nAnd they came, foxing, squeezing out crocodile tears, their lives boxy and neat,
\nthey wept,
\ngathered up
\ncompacted,
\nprotected,
\nthrown away and at the same time,
\nkept.
\nHis last words weren’t clever, he said
\n‘Nothing lasts forever,
\nbut a little love goes a long, long way.’<\/p>\n
\nto be held at the entrance to his mother’s cervix.
\n**The ashes will be scattered at Kovalam Bay in Kerala, South India.<\/p>\n
\nDust vol au vent crumbs off your hands?
\ntake your eye off your mobile price plans,
\nand ask,
\nIs that the last I will hear of him?<\/p>\n
\nThink of him this Christmas when your salmon is smoking,
\nRobert Harding is dead.
\nLong live Robert Hoking!<\/p>\n