Because you made me pulsate
\nlike hot peach trees, reel like liquid skies
\nthe colour of naked limbs. Because you were
\nthe rain that dreams of larkspur
\nand woodruff, the smell of loam and bubble
\ngum laughter as the pub door opened.
\nBecause we felt the same way about the city
\nof leaves and the miners\u2019 strike, string vests
\nand washing lines in back yards. Was it Neruda
\nwho said love is a three-legged dance
\non a reclaimed stair-case with two right turns?
\nI loved you as a seasoned stockpile
\nof 3′ by 4′ adores the sun. You said love
\nis what happens when you feel the ocean’s
\nclamour prime your heart, when the roots
\nof larch and birch nourish your fingers
\nand toes and you see the world anew. It’s true,
\nwhen we first met my senses were alert
\nto amber clouds radiant like hives, the smell
\nof the bread bin, burl in the bark, iron
\nin the dew; it’s true, when we first met, I did
\nsee the world anew. Was it Hegley who said,
\nlove is a scream in the bathroom?
\nRemember, we debated what it meant to say
\nspace or spruce is ‘real’ compared
\nto love\u2019s laughing grief. We agreed real
\nis Yorkshire puddings, Stilton evenings
\nbut when we talked of Plato’s cave,
\nprisoners blinking in the crackling air
\nwhere one shadow may hide another, we were
\nno longer sure. When we recited Neruda,
\nI loved you as rivers foam to the song
\nof whitethroats. Here, I loved you as burglars
\nescaped through the cellar while managers
\nate a steak dinner; here, in this pub we
\ncalled the \u2018197,\u2019 I loved you like tomatoes
\nlong to bounce down stepping stones,
\npassing kipper sheds and jagged rocks
\nto the monumental jaw bone of a whale; here,
\nat this table under the caped silhouette
\nof the Porto Sandeman, as folk musicians
\nplayed button accordian. Remember, we
\ndidn’t know what a euphonium was, so we
\nbought another round of drinks, quoted
\nMarx on the Class Struggle in France,
\nasked whose side Christ was on, and why all
\nthe greats wore clinically intriguing volumes
\nof hair. Here, under the caped silhouette
\nof the Porto Sandeman, we debated
\nwhat it means to know that string quartets
\nand the sans-culottes are real
\ncompared to amour. We agreed love happens
\non Ward 53. We agreed love happens
\nin Peru and the Bungalows and Bears
\non the Cantril Farm estate where Maggie Kelly
\nbought me a chilli, asked if I threw
\nthat tennis game in the hospital grounds.
\nWe agreed love happens at the Showroom
\non the big screen in The Crying Game.
\nThat night your chrome yellow Mini-cooper
\nwent missing outside the Star and Garter,
\nremember, we walked in donkey jackets
\nby the burnt-out boathouse, a glycerine lake
\nunder the alopecia moon. I called you Three
\nbirds that teach three birds to sing. I called you
\nthe burning blue breaks of the sea. Your navel
\nwas an ear to the shore – the bark of silence.
\nNow, I throw you a bone. How could I forget
\nyour cold-war tantrums and bonfire eyes
\nNiagara could not quench. How could I forget
\nyour six quavers of silence to the apocalypse
\nsmile and when we talked of Plato\u2019s cave,
\nwhere the shadow-mimes signify and prisoners
\nsecond guess, we knew it was war.
\nWhen we talked of the missing four weeks
\nwe agreed we were deja vu and amnesia
\nin the same conversation. Tell me everything
\nyou know about Medusa, Cruella De Vil,
\nIvor Cutler. Because you were a Tyrannacide
\nhiding behind another Tyrannacide, disguised
\nas a florest. Because I couldn\u2019t forget
\nthe rocket-salad, free range eggs you launched
\nfrom the kitchen hatch. Was it Bukowski who
\nsaid love is a lot of bad movies, and a hair pin
\nin the ass? Because I didn\u2019t fear your assassin
\nwho stabbed me in the arm with an Easter egg.
\nI feared waiting between Everyday Loans and
\nNoble Amusements for the cab-door\u2019s yawn,
\nthat How-funny-you-are smile. I feared a spine
\nof burning salt and billowing lace at dawn.
\nI feared waiting between Everyday Loans and
\nNoble Amusements for Three birds to teach
\nthree birds to sing.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
At my parents, Christmas, I looked
\nfor that boy where I no longer exist.
\nKey still in the yellow backdoor,
\nsmell of wet dog by the fridge,
\nnot knowing where I was til I heard
\nthe orange, Wembley football,
\nthudding on house, garden wall,
\nsaw kids wrestle one another\u2019s hearts
\nfor a goal scoring chance, climb
\ntheir own spines to head a high cross. <\/p>\n
Man-o-war masts of smog – gilded
\nby sodium, torn on aerials – unfurling
\nthe ship\u2019s prow figure-head
\nof Brenda Scoefield, pedalling into low
\ndefinition silhouette, her grimace
\nset in millstone; handlebar basket
\nfull of mincemeat. A kid on his knees
\nspine flexing, retrieving the ball
\nfrom under a car like a beggar\u2019s dog.<\/p>\n
I escaped, died, went to Fazakerely,
\nleaving behind elbows of mist,
\nforeheads of salt, spaces for others
\nto inhabit, a street you cannot leave.
\nAt my parents, Christmas, I looked
\nfor that boy where I no longer exist.
\nFalling down, getting up, hard to see
\nfor eye-scalding sweat, a shoe flying
\noverhead, detonated laughter muted
\nin the sulphurous haze. One-two off <\/p>\n
a gate stump, a cheeky nutmeg
\nby the coal truck, a rolling barrel
\nof scuffs, charges, kicks and curses
\nseveral feet from disturbing the peace
\nin every directionless riot of travel.
\nA kettle boils, the acousmatic voice
\nof the apocalypse, Big Dora, boom-
\n-clang-squeaking like a boxcar axle
\npledging an imminent reckoning
\nfor the price of bacon bones, Five
\nWoodbines and the Wembley ball\u2019s
\nthunder-clap on her window pane.<\/p>\n
How many of \u2018me\u2019 are there?
\nOne, of oak-moss smeared denim,
\nwhite milk below the bough\u2019s skin,
\nswinging on a fraying rope, shaking
\nstiffness out of branches. One,
\nof the swishy hips-first walk
\nand take-the-piss upper-crust drawl
\nand lisp. One, lying in hiding
\non the washhouse, staring
\nat celestial insect-bites of light.
\nOne, is the brother needing help
\nwith his reading and writing.
\nMy penance is a house of books. <\/p>\n
One, of cathode glow, theme tune:
\nThis is Your Life, Till Death Us
\nDo Part, charge of the clothes props
\nin the garden. World in Action, that
\nnaked man with the opening credits.
\nOne, of borderless nature\u2019s apples.
\nWhat was his name? Stopped cars,
\nthe night train\u2019s one-tone treble,
\niron-on-iron, spear-on-shield, faint,
\nbuilding, louder…as in Zulu,
\nechoing across the golf links, other
\nside of the line. Where do they go?
\nDo they live in another street
\nafter this one. Who calls them in
\nat night. Do they return as people
\nwho see themselves as absent?<\/p>\n
Under a lamppost a couple arm-
\nin-arm, the girl\u2019s smile-inside,
\nor is it a runnel of vapour, a tear?
\nCold pinching her thighs, ears,
\nfrom behind, his small red light,
\nshe checks her stride not knowing
\nthat what she does next as the ball
\nbounces towards her, will resonate
\nin the questions she asks the men
\nshe meets, the way she sweeps lint
\nfrom her nylon stocking, sitting
\ncross-legged on a bus, kids playing
\nup. Walks past a wall with a cane.<\/p>\n
At my parents, Christmas, mum All that was four decades ago. I would run to these kids Litany Because you made me pulsate like hot peach trees, reel like liquid skies the colour of naked limbs. Because you were the rain that dreams of larkspur and woodruff, the smell of loam and bubble gum laughter as the pub door opened. Because we felt the same way about the city of leaves and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":227,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[346,349],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\ntold me: He doesn\u2019t speak to her…
\nShe doesn\u2019t speak to him…neither
\nof them speak to the one upstairs.
\nHe\u2019s pouring concrete in Australia,
\nshe\u2019s moved in with a fella – he\u2019s
\nnot well, it\u2019s a bugger and \u2018Slim\u2019
\nthe decorator\u2019s gone<\/em>, recalls him
\ndrying his socks on a blow lamp.
\nMrs Livesley, harmless enough<\/em>
\nswinging her cotton-string mop
\ncleansing her lamppost out front
\nall she is into the act, declaiming
\ninto the gums of the wind:
\nDon\u2019t think ah don\u2019t bloody know
\nwhat yah sayin\u2019 \u2018t\u2019 other side
\nof curtains \u2018cause ah bloody do.<\/em> <\/p>\n
\nThe years, trailing one another
\nlike novice spies at first,
\nthen highway robbers, galloping
\nalongside, getting a grip. People
\nlong gone. One, fathered a child,
\ngot that illness we don\u2019t mention.
\nOne, threw herself under a train,
\nsmiled as she put out the empties.
\nSome of cancer, of drink, of time
\nwhich is a fog-bound street from
\nanother point of view. Actually,
\nall that was an hour ago.
\nCan\u2019t see them now for shadows
\nthat self-divide and re-converge,
\ngaps between the living and dead
\nwe pour through, finding our own
\nshape, guided by sibilant echoes,
\ndistances, the glimmer of a cheek.
\nLike lungs of air we cannot hold
\non to them for long. <\/p>\n
\nplayfighting like mountain cubs,
\nask them whose side I\u2019m on.
\nOutnumbered by their own ghosts,
\ninseparable from sea smoke
\nout running the wind, oblivious
\nto the murmured vespers
\nof other roads, not caring
\nwhich side-street of knock-about
\nthey are born or die on, too busy
\ntwisting blood on the ball,
\nsetting fire to their lives
\nto heed the rat run\u2019s engines
\nas the centuries begin<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"