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A slow skull, but steady
as four pull by in unison,
the river readies me for another day
with current confidences
quietly spoken

In comparison, the busy chat
of small brown birds seems rude,
but cheek and charm
forgive a lot
if not all

It’s to the bees I’ll look
for industry this Sunday,
though if their lead will be followed
is yet to be decided
Blackbirds backwards
and your solid foil to my boiling yawn
is remembered

I’ll always love you my dude

even though it’s mostly memory now
we travelled odd eighties early nineties
hinterlands
full of clear stupidities and hidden
immutable truths

but I’ll always hold
ridiculous dry heated cricket pitches,
run dark *** and loose joints
as what drove us

“What should we do today?”
“I dunno”
To crawl, the impossible crawl
to swear, the most swearable curse
to bear all the ******* they throw us
and not, leave the place in a hearse

To nod, when you just want to punch
to eat, every snack that you see
to cry, when you misplace a pencil
or meltdown when you can’t find your keys

This is our quest!
To get to the end!
Without killing a colleague,
or upsetting our friends

To still teach fractious kids
without question or pause
to stride strong into period 5
without breaking some laws

And I know that the end is in sight
so I’ll bite my lip
late July will be peaceful and calm
with a big gin to sip

And the future will not be so bad
to our heart and skills we affirm
September we’ll all start again
but for now we consign to the past
the unteachable term
Barbiturate sunshine afternoons
obscure the niggling work pile
and with fat heat, cool anger,
opening evenings to virtuous
leaf based dinners
only slightly ruined
by too much beer and ice cream
Ach, my amygdala
agglomerates ridiculousness,
a ****** laden froth
of other possibilities and lives
and loves, loves
and mitigated losses
to address the hurt
Jesus! The sweet burn of a heartbeat racing,
madly light-headed without a drop
passing lips that just
yearned
for want of a more sweaty term

inching to overdose with each reverie
while the colour drains from the now
a quick bump from a caught scent
or piqued memory

or a full on sofa session
pipe packed with young *****
(what dreams may come?)

the result’s the same:
unless you find today’s feast
you’ll atrophy on empty calories
of what was

#youhavepromptedme #flashedback #memory #nostalgia #youth
My word
nothing does love/hate
quite as poetically
as a teacher reaching holiday’s end

intrinsic guilt of ‘not having done’
bound up with seeing our colleagues
loved and hated
again

and those ******, beautiful, ugly
broken-bright
impossible-everyday kids

my words
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