Taken, whisked, picked from the plug,
grass grows inside crack walled shrugs,
built by hand by a northern named man.
His dog lays still in the heather,
in the fog,
on the hill,
by the river;
resting in the bleak hill town, morning weather.

Tied back hair scouring the bookshelf,
a second hand smile reaching around her cheeks.
Her lips hugged her sad face,
cold with winter white that sweeps across with haste.
Look at the cut of her coat.
The way it enfolds the shivering body,
it falls down to her knees as if praying-
the natural antibody to her faithful mistake.
Ring twisting on park benches
won’t relieve your post-marriage pain,
in fact the film will come
and wash you away with the rain.
Get off your mark and go backstage,
cup of tea for the wounded actress.

Let soles touch floors
on hills, in bars, between cafe terrace doors;
beside scarred walls that bleed paint
of the young, naive, those who cannot wait;
only to be scrubbed down by the thick bristled
brush of the Gendarme in white.

I’m 22 in the 18th,
with a one bed roomed house
high above the wake.
Next door is a wafer thin, paper thin,
not-that-thick-let’s-the-sound-in
wall; the portal through
to another war, of words exchanged
by a relationship estranged by
lies, cheats, drug filled leaps, missed-another-call
in Tuesday’s heat.

Here we take tea without milk,
waste time on the Pigalle, free of guilt.
We let warm metro, subway air
melt our faces,
as we stagger back a few several paces
not to be knocked down by taxis, brimmed with cases of
those visiting and leaving, staying around until the end of the races.

When will you calm down Paris?
When will your children lose their
keys to their cars and cannot drive
quite as far?
When will the tourists leave, so to uncover
the real autumn leafed workers, stretched
inside suits and dresses, only to be late
to that members meeting starting at 8?

Grab a coach home heroes,
sit amongst the somewhere men,
the here and there women
and the growing up fast kids,
with lantern phones, magic tones.

Everyone here is going somewhere,
winter’s bare
and home awaits.

Fantastic lips and red sense in style,
a lady reclines in front.
She texted Rhys, lengthy in characters,
whilst the plot remained precise.
‘I have to agree with you, let’s take it slow’
fantastic fingers itched her fringe.
Was she confused about love
and its rules and regs,
or was he a staller,
‘the old car won’t start again’ kinda feller?

There are no heroes on this coach tonight,
we’re Sheffield bound and
all without a fight.

We left the Summer too long,
that is ran off and absconded,
turned to Autumn,
made blue skies red.

I got told that
there’s a girl for every thought,
by a man with brown eyes.
He took a train South at
nine fifteen with a bought
bag of lies tucked between forearm
and chest; below the neck but still high enough.

Hide behind new names
devised by haircut disasters and
***, gin and past-their-sell-by-date jokes,
thought up in hotel lobbies
in front of a front desk clerk,
oblivious to everything but hotel work.

When we got back together for the first time, in that
field after Christmas,
I still remember the cold.
Although warm from chasing a dog,
white as snow,
I was cold.
Winter’s air whipped against my cheeks
and you were there on the phone.
It was cruel.
He was sent to the abattoir
and we were happy.
And now you say you like men in denim jackets
and thick rimmed glasses.

Sorry my eyes are perfect. Sorry I like practical coats for the winter. Sorry I am not ginger.

Stay at camp and remember
what won’t be forgotten,
unless the picture you got printed
disappears and returns to embers.
3 months away is 3 months too long,
especially when every day, every day, every day
is reminisced, sicked up in the conversation ashtray.
Stub out the cig and smoke what is real,
as then the hits you score will reveal the hidden,
the truth and the tiny minute, microscopic detail.