My theory was written on the other side of town.
Eyes that had only watched the world through
a single pane of glass, found reflections all round.
Where I used to see grey, crisp formations of cloud.
Even in the house, blocks of door painted one colour
were replaced with dreamlike figures cutting cake.

Anyway, yesterday a man wearing a Union Jack
flag on his waist and sleeve told me his worries.
Five or six cars parked, eight or nine bedrooms
lying cold and lonely while in the south of France.
To lose count of the windows in one's life, I thought,
as he asked me about the proletariat. Luxury indeed.

Hear the weekend call out my name on a mixtape
    Beats the cursed kid of 2008 couldn't believe
Weakened by letters in envelopes and journals
    Every headline read like predictable junk mail
Stuffed into the pages of a life in solitude

    Punished himself for abandoning his youth
Cruelty continued and relegated progress
    The mess left built higher than a sugar rush
When the crash came, it was always Thursday

Smashed up faces of a watch, shoes split at the toes
Broken table legs, phones grazed from concrete
    The citizens continued, so he kept imploding

Each week came a late play-off final defeat
    Gifted a long-sleeve stained in grassy green
Our boy believed he grew into all of his spite
    But he had grime glued under them fingernails
As he typed bullet holes into a fledgling friendship

    There were times when he became addicted to life
Outside clubs dancing on the hands of the night
    Inside cabs singing with his underground band
Junkies will tell you all about hard landings

Infected with the sickness on his Isle of Bile    
   Mental health problems were an understatement
Like butcher's meat, he should have been sectioned

So in this bottled message to the day we're sailing out from
    Give thanks to the shipwrecks who touched sand
      Apologise for the storms and oceans left behind

I

In the garden with the cherry tree -
where daffodils curb the fence -
cats in long grass stalk the birds
and the rhubarb patch is bursting.

The back of next door's shed.
A white wall of pebbledash.
It's one almighty canvas,
the same size as a goal.

II

In the garden with a trampoline centre -
first love sits poised in morning air -
though we haven't shut our eyes all night,
we're more alive than ever here.

King of the burning woodpile.
Trimmed weeds in a mound.
Neighbours chirping out of view.
Sport scores over a blaring tune.

III

In the garden that's become a home -
close to my place of worship -
guests wave outside the temple,
years and years of well-wishers.

Looking out for hedgehogs.
Feeding a family of foxes.
Like a wave in my brain,
memories come flooding in.

IV

In the garden that was aforementioned -
long after daylight has drowned -
a friend of mine sits next to me
and we gaze through broken cloud.

We've seen everything here:
sun, rain, snow and hail.
This garden knows all my pain
and has helped me to heal.

Goodbye kiss to the day I'll miss.
Put headphones on and select a song.
Down the cobblestones until further decision.
Division like the very fabric of football.
Could choose my normal route to The Square,
just four corners to take - a simple shape -
see proud flags made of organic thread,
all the colours I like will be on display. Although,
what if I head down Butcher Row instead?
Sure it's steeper down the shuts but
I fancy my luck out there today.

Before the leap, I see a wall
so opposite to my position, it's hostile.
How long have these concrete eyes watched on?
I'm terrified and contemplate calling in sick,
return to rich address and don't overthink.
Then in each direction, groups meet at the centre.
There's pointing and shouting and spit flying
into hair that's in flames and ignites more people
to march out deluxe doors left ajar
as kids peer through windows
above the obscenity.
Hesitate to whisper,
future back in that house,
until I see bricks change angle.

Thinking in pink.
Shout loud about my background.
Grab the handle of both sides.
Point my crooked nose at the stone:
'Let's climb this together.'
'Peace and love forever.'
Those at the back can't hear my speech.
But those really listening cheer and preach.
Reach for ladders or offer cupped palms.
Touch the top layer but get knocked off
by a flare thrown from out of nowhere.
Hunt the culprit while the victim burns.
Bodies clamber to sample some action
like a mound of sugar infested with ants.
Look back at my house in a peaceful daze.
Turn to the melee and see a knife in my face.