We shed our gap-toothed gentleman coats
and ran white skinned into a purple river,

George (a weak swimmer) grabbed handfuls of
reeds as the water undid a fantasy of clouds.

Our feet found love with the edges of rocks and
our swimming trunks unloaded the stink of chlorine

into the cold bright dark light miracle of water,
our reflections broken into champagne pieces and

beautiful as only two laughing boys can be.
How clichéd to be lost in the heart of the morning,

as George sat with his orange juice like an
illustration drawn by the most lighthearted of artists,

a little prince against a backdrop of blooming baoabs
that shrugged behind him like green diamonds

with the tunes of birds still clinging to their leaves.
How deeply romantic I was at fourteen -

too young to have read Brideshead Revisited,
too old to have gazed at George’s hair and

seen a simple tumble of boring blond.
This was the summer that ached with everything,

like a muscle throbbing during tennis
reminding you you’re playing as best you can.

That summer was the shimmering pause
between two acts of a dismal play -

our childhood not yet left behind,
lingering like a tan line on the shoulders of joy.

One night we drank lemonade out of brandy
glasses and sat together in the biggest bath you’ve

ever seen, winding our wrists together to sip
from each others drinks, his hair was dark and

damp at the tips and there were bubbles everywhere.
Such things I remember, the gentleness of first love

and the way it shapes each love to come,
I’m still a sucker for blonds and a gallant lover of

summers spent as they should be spent:
in water baby England, with the countryside

humming inside your ears, and the sunlight
warming up the grass to greet your feet after

swimming in rivers, and to wind down at night
with a friend who is beautiful,

and to kiss them just once, near the ear and only here,
to wish them goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.

The winter was unkind
Yet you loved it
So much,
It was your gauche friend,
Reclusive in its blankness,
Complicit with its demands for
Many layers,
As snow is complicit in ****** -
Snuggling coldly into
Footprints.

And I remember the simpering
Light
That night,
As it squeaked into the
Room like
Lab rats bred for death.
I remember the slip
Of your body on the sheets
And your
Speech bubble breath
Spearmint ellipses,
Your teeth white
Your eyeballs white
Your watch-face white
The witch behind you
White,
Whispering the content
Of her
Turkish delight
And sculpting you
For her museum.

(Nothing ever really warmed you up.
How I hated that winter.)

I put the heating on and
Showed you the
Wedding dress –
An antique affair
That had been passed down.
My sister did not want it,
As she is not at all romantic.

When I got back from
The bathroom
You were out of bed,
Holding the dress against yourself,
Stuck in the mirror,
Head turned,
Absolutely lost -
A tiny bride
White as a
Snow tongued branch
And just as still,
Waiting for the wind
Or the clouds
Or some kind of joy
To move you.

My old boyfriend
used to wear a very
particular
(yet very commonplace)
aftershave.

Now and again
I'll catch a molecule
of it in the air -
in a club
or a lift
or a supermarket,
and it doesn't comfort me
at all.

No, no,
it doesn't comfort me
at all.

It’s like crossing paths with a ghost.

I found it so jarring
that it
inspired me to swap
my usual cologne
for a lesser known one,
which I mix with
another
uncommon fragrance
to create
my own
blend.

Girly?
Indeed.

But if I die
no-one will ever
be startled
by my ghost.

(Not unless
they know
which colognes
to mix.)

(I fancy you.
I ******* fancy you.
I fondant fancy you,
I flight of fancy you,
I fancy-pants you,
I fancy the pants off you)

I fancy your body -
Every inch of it!
I fancy your hair,
I fancy your spit,
I fancy the way you
Knock on my door,
Just the knock gets me hard!
(But I don’t fancy the door.)
I fancy you first thing
In the morning
When my mouth wants to do something
Other than yawning,
I fancy the way you pull at my hair,
I fancy your smiles,
I fancy your stares,
I fancy your job,
Your wardrobe,
Your phone,
I fancy your burps,
Your kisses,
Your groans,
I fancy your tongue,
I fancy your licks,
And I really
Really
fancy your ****,
But most of all
I fancy the fact
That I fancy you
And you fancy me back.

Dinner table,
Bowls of light,
Stage fright, lilies,
No appetite,
Dark absences nibbling
Right through my eyes
Like black rabbits pulled
Out of Truman Show skies,
Provoking the question
From those sat up front –
Is this a trick you’re pulling -
Is this one of your stunts?
But no amount of smiling
Will do –
Nod all you like.
They’re onto you.

Christmas Eve,
Sister’s house,
Black eye,
Ulcerated mouth.
Divinely tickled-
By Miss World!
A pinecone and mistletoe
Christmas hurled
Down en suite toilets
Porcelain pink,
My face makes love
To the bathroom sink.

The most squalid Little Lord
In the county, me,
Summer blooms hold
No charms for me,
So I try to apply my
Favourite smile
And travel a few more
Country miles
To a chemist that doesn’t
Know my face.
I browse a bit
(Condoms, spectacles case)
Then I try to
Convince the pharmacist
That I need two
Bottles of
Gee’s Linctus.

The cruelest boyfriend
I ever had
Gives head to a toilet roll
And his fingerpads
Are bordello yellow
From greased nicotine,
This ******* in Primrose
Exhales smoke in a stream,
And I try to remember what
Buttercup said,
His baby’s breath whispers
Wilt in my head,
Something about purity
Something about loss
Something about cleanliness
Something about God
Something about something
That I should tick off as regrettable,
But one flower can make everything
So *******
Forgettable.

1.

I'm on my fourth
pack of cigarettes,
my twentieth cup
of tea,
my mouth tastes like
the gusset
of an unwashed person's
negligee.

*******, phone.
*******, door.
I don't even know
what you're for
anymore.

2.

A copy of a copy of a copy...
who said that?
who ******* said it?
No! Train your brain, Arthur!
Don't you dare Google it!

3

I can already feel
the lights of the
hospital
warm on my
head.
Make me a brew, ladies,
save me a bed.

4.
Why didn't anybody tell me
that it would be so hard
so instantly?
The last time
if I recall
it took two weeks
before the curtain call.

5.
I think I need to dream
to be reminded of
pretty words.