I found this book of poetry by Jeremy Reed in Oxfam.
It is a load of poems about music stars and bands, published in 1994.
It has, as you can see, Morrisseys current cover-star on the cover.
Anyway, this is the poem about Morrissey.
Moribund, and morosity
is like an empty grey building,
the windows punched out on the sky,
the aerosoled pink graffiti
proclaiming a dead Weltanschauung.
Holed up at Manchester's Midland,
the man entertains his mystique.
It's like a vulture sitting in his hand
quizzing his eyes and waiting for the kill.
It keeps him celibate. A friend
is someone who walks out of a mirror
on dark days when a taxi calls
delivering a heart-shaped box
not to be opened right until the end...
Inside is a portrait of Oscar Wilde
or a bullet noosed in a red ribbon?
Pop music is his addiction,
without it he'd disorbit, decibels
are supernovas in his brain.
Outside, it's a thin fuzzy rain
turns everything to sepia;
the street's a 19th-century photograph.
He riffles through old 45s,
a vinyl fetishist for whom the past
elicits meaning. He sips at cold tea.
A sixties song resuscitates his mood.
He embraces his vision. It's the blue
of old forgotten films, of solitude.