the day after christmas
the morning after a quarrel
i took my daughter for a walk
setting off from my parents’ house
to walk my hometown streets
in the eerie damp silence
of a public holiday
the park was too wet and cold for play
i felt bad dragging her down there
she walked a few planks, slipped
thought the mud was dog **** and cried a little
we abandoned ship
aimed towards a bar in town
where we could find hot chocolate
and beer
as we were leaving the park
a young couple arrived
with a bounding labrador
a boxing day stroll
a breath of fresh air
for the fresh young couple
ten years fresher than i
him, tall and willowy
her, short, round hips and bottom
pretty face and plaited hair
wellies, jeans and fleece coats
she looked warm and friendly
he looked relaxed
carefree
they strolled past but didn't see us
my daughter asked me a question
but I was peering into the
young couple’s lives
being obvious
imagining them under fresh white cotton sheets
on a lazy sunday morning
after a party
where they each had a few drinks
not too many
where they sat together all night
he doesn’t always smoke ****
when he drinks
and they never *****
they’re never too drunk for ***
when she’s tipsy she rides him
pulls extra *** faces
she doesn’t mind him seeing her floppy *******
it excites him
but the morning after it’s simple missionary
his bony hips pushing up
into her warm seat
eyes locked
a tray by the bed with bacon crusts and empty tea mugs
simple pleasures
if either one of them had caught my eye in the park
my stares were screaming:
‘i’m having marital problems
and i’m honestly scared!
i want what you have!’
but they didn’t look
the dog ran ahead and the girl
threw a wet tennis ball
but her aim was bad
and she caught her lover square
on the back of the head
it was a soft throw
it didn't hurt him
but he was livid
he spun around and glared at her
she apologised and trotted towards him
he stormed away
stopped by the tennis court fence
hand to the back of his head
to mark the insult
when she reached him
he shouted at her
about her lack of judgement
her eyes widened and nostrils flared
my daughter was still talking to me
i held her cold, clammy little hands
and we watched the young man shouting
at the cowering young woman
and i realised that there was
a serious possibility
that no one is happy
we’re all *******
familiarity does breed contempt
i threw my daughter on my shoulders
and showed her the tennis shed
where i used to smoke cigarettes

i met the girl
with the marbled skin
in the bus queue
drunk, naked white arms, getting wet,
pressed against me in the darkened apron
a friend of someone who called me friend
but whose name or face or accent
I forgot within a season
of course i noticed her scars
shiny, thick, swirls of burnt skin
on cheeks, arms, hands;
some the very shape of the bandages
which held them in place
when she was a baby
pink chewing gum stretched over
ankles and elbows
she was funny
sharp and attentive
she half squinted her eyes
when she listened to me
i knew she was watching
me watching her plump wet lips
painted metallic pink
pushed into a betty boop square
by her cheek patches
she gave male celebrity names
to her huge *******

we sat together on the top deck and talked
so feverishly we missed a fight
at the back of the bus
(not so much a fight, an ambush
the tipsy, loud, student
was never in a position
to return a blow
- even if he did have the skill or fire -
after the local boy’s heavy boot
crashed into his jaw)

when I met her again
after the summer
we matched like socks
no words or hesitation
no doubts
we shared every sofa, room, bed
we ate together, smoked together,
missed lectures together,
and drank so often and so hard
our friends
- also students, drinkers, fiends -
warned us to settle down

in the mornings
when i lay in bed with a silent goth
a bipolar italian
a hairy, angry artist
a tiny farm girl
i would text her
and beg her to come save me

in the end it was our
not having ***
that tore us from each other
when we slept naked
on her mattress on the floor
i never shuffled over in the black
never reached out for those scarred limbs
of polished wood
or those heavy folding *******
i just slept
the sleep of the dead
while she read oscar wilde
wearing nothing but a head torch

her flatmate
two years older, wake and baker,
mass of curly hair and scarves and books
burst in one night
demanded to know
if we were having ***

and our peers kept misunderstanding
demanding
that we either **** or marry
(or preferably both, in that order)
kept asking what we did at night
two naked adults
must surely be rutting
putting ourselves
inside one another
do it or stop it
get on with it or stop pretending

she began to listen to the whispers

one night she asked me why i didn’t view her
as a woman
i said i did
but more importantly as a friend
it was easier for her to think
i found her ugly
than to realise i found her
much too beautiful

all these things led you here
the oversized headlines
of your father’s newspaper
and his father's before him
the pakistani shopkeeper
who accused you of stealing
whose bark roasted your pimpled face
the boy at college you flirted with
the tall boy with the sleek curtained hair
whose family had fled iraq
who made you laugh
and nudged your knees
who went to study medicine
and never texted you back
your dad’s boss
the fat Jamaican
who sacked him at easter
just a handful of years before his retirement
the girl at work
beautiful girl
in the headscarf
who married a man she’d never seen
and when you asked her
if he was a good man
she replied joyously ‘yes!
the best man!’
the many taxi drivers
who ferry you home
and overcharge you
watching you in the dark mirror
beetle eyes glistening
caressing the face you prepared so neatly
now blotchy and wet
ketchup clown
bloated in the window
the face of second generation ivory
all these things led you here

rig was fair
spiked hair
big like an oil rig
six foot tall
square shoulders
coffee-stain birthmark on his cheek
the rest of him freckled
too feared to be fought
betrayed by his own intellect
pacing the lino tiles like a zoo wolf
wrapping tape around pins
to make blow darts
firing them from rolled-up worksheets
sticking in smelly teenage scalps
sticking in the hived cheeks of the quiet boys
muttering accusations
at the closeted gay english teacher
total immunity guaranteed
through hulk and bulk and brazen cruelty
and the fear and the jeer of the crowd

bevans was dark
six foot one
thick black brush hair
face like a gnarled foot
broken nose with one nostril welded shut
nasal jackal yap-yap-yaps
manic eyes with natural mascara
giving the girls piggy rides
to hold their sunned hockey thighs in his dinner plate hands
bevans of the dark monster ****
flashed around the library
the dinner hall
bevans and his boys
pulling themselves
behind the science desks
wiping their *** on the curtains
squawking, crying with laughter
while the rest of us set fire to peanuts
on tripods with bunsen burners
our pale shrivelled pride
tucked away in the underwear
our mothers bought us

for years rig went with a girl
who looked like a pretty frog
‘i’ve been with her so long
i’ve literally felt her ****
grow in my hands’
she lived in a small village known for its golf course
and when he discovered ecstasy
and diazepam dissolved in buckets of lager
and dumped her without warning
she turned to older boys and farmers for comfort
she became known at school
as the nineteenth hole

rig and bevans
were friends of mine
i kept them close
with quips and hoots and indifference
begging each day
would provide some amusement
some mouse in the grass
to draw their keen eyes
and sharp tobacco tongues
to keep their necks from
twisting back
to snap and bite down
on the weak of the pack
which happened, of course, every few days
when my mother asked why
my shirt was soaked in slashes of blue ink
my hair was burned
there were blow dart spots
of dried blood
on my neck and hands
i told her it was a game