Dear Phil,
The whiskey’s for you,
For always being
a Living,
breathing
Legend
right through
to death.
You congratulated me
on getting out of Norfolk
and traveling.
And said in front of everyone who’d mocked me
That it’s what we need to be doing.
Your final days
apparently you contacted few people
and kept to yourself;
Nat says it was typical of you,
that a quick phone-call and chat
would’ve made everything better.
But
What you did
Enabled you
To get out.
Now googling your name
comes up with Jimmus’ lyrics
for a band you always pissed on…
quite a cosmic joke
that you,
Phil Vinehill,
are the subject of
a hipster emo song
that is far from the pure metal
that you knew so well.
I remember when
we rang up people across Britain
whose name was ‘Death’
and we spoke from the bible to them.
Then you had to be picked up by your dad
and you convinced me to ask him
about his pink Y-fronts.
Half of the entertainment
in my French class
was trying to get
Natalie
to start fancying you.
And I remember
when you asked Fiona out
and I was amazed
because for years
I’d been infatuated by her
but you just went for it
and didn’t seem
bothered
either way.
When you shaved your head,
so did Jimmus,
and Lee,
they following your lead,
but they never had
the Reebok Classics
that you mocked
the entire world with.
You were the best at giving dead arms,
better than bloody James Spaans,
or Jim Pont,
or Marlon Ignatius.
You left me bruises,
but you told me
that I was the best at bruising arms.
Last time I saw you
after Lifestyles Festival 2010,
Rebelation, Faintest Idea, etc etc.,
you shouted across to two chavs
demanding that
they fight you.
But they were silent
and walked on
trying to ignore
the demand for vengeance
that you stalked.
I left the area, Phil,
and you did too
in early 2011
never coming back.
Well done Phil,
from the bottom of my heart,
well done,
never stopping being you,
you fucking legend.
Devotional breath, Embodied revolution 