Who is Brian Davis, London writer and poet?

Some friends recently shared with me poems written by Brian Davis, a British writer, wanderer, and, as far as I can tell from my friends, lifelong lost soul.  Brian, whom I never knew, or even heard of before my friends shared his poems, died mysteriously (no foul play involved, but mysterious all the same)--a fall from a window.  At least, my friends think it was a fall.  What makes his end so mysterious to me, or perhaps intriguing, is one of the poems my friends shared with me . . .

Chet Baker

A true story

Even if you were blind drunk and all strung out on speedballs,

You could sing My Funny Valentine and, guess what? I would have

close calls

With the heart surgeon. As a wise guy said, you never could

resist a pretty tune:

She Was Too Good for You. Your Future Just Passed. You

Wished on the Moon.

You had the looks, of course, ravaged maybe, but Dean-like,

magic;

Your fate was written in the stars, lucky ones, not tragic.

I got lucky myself: remember that Paris boite where you

chanced upon me

And asked: “Having a good time? You look like you need a

drink or three.”

Sure. We didn’t talk of music, to which you danced so

Beautifully,

But of places to stay in Paris. You were at a favourite and said:

“Feel free

To go there, tell them you’re a friend of mine and you’ll get

a special rate.”

You left me to resume your set, asking the barman to keep

me in drinks. Funny. Fate

Decreed that, after this terrific night, I had to leave and I

never stayed

At your hotel. Well, time’s passed and you’re all played

Out. Vain

Perhaps your exit, jumping out a window in the

Leidserpleine.

Hey ho. I’ve got a deal in Paris, so I’ll go there and lie at

your place. Bet

I love it. It may not be the Hyatt, but I can say, quite loudly,

“Bonjour, monsieur, j’etais un ami de Chet.”