was the colour of piss on chrome, of
marigolds in baskets, marigolds in sinks, of lager
in the last flat roof pub. The riotous fug.
Al limped in.
He’d worked in Bloomsbury before the concrete set.
There was a moment where 50% polyester felt like
silk on skin. He was made of XS, but took an XL RL
knock-off in white. Bone buttoned. Billowing.
Bog rolls on string.
They’d got their Sunday’s
caught in the zip of the afternoon. Kev of Mancunia was
double cross, had shot people for less and would not
leave it out. Lydia, gave a ‘missed Frank earlier’
out the side of her mouth.
I don’t need to miss this place to know that they was there.
I snapped fairies in the willow by me dead mum’s dog,
do you ever notice? Do you
Algernon had a
perfect working washer, Ariston, but opted for the coin-op.
Odds on for a mix-up in the undergarments. Meaning
cubicle confinement to pass the export flat, else that
frilly question, he dared be asked.
all over The Danish Girl on ITV 3. It made his year.
He’d kipped all through MotD 2, the pub-time sermon,
to be passed on and on and on
A schtum trudge
through dead tree stools, lily mats, lino grass, took a sharp
down the gents. Parfum ’73 hit his working nostril, for the
veil of stench. Eyes to heavens, he royally threw. Home
He flicked thinning overgrowth, nicked his finger on
safety glass and rouged his lips. Scarf-tied Sue Ryder, tight.
Firm fingered the hole in his memory, to see
if it had a pulse.
Borax for the thorax.
Metal coat-hanger ‘tween teeth. Jutting clavicles creased and
wrinkled. Tranquiliser girls came crutch less with glossy dogs
in flaxen highs, all camomile lawn laid and dandy handsome.
The fruit machine flashed back.
Fellow nymphs gambolling meadows, were fellow sods
gambling Sky Sports racing. Keynes would’ve had a
good-to-firm field day. Cornflower pens behind ears.
A horse named Ripp Off ran the 2:15.
Livers for the chop.
a damn fix, unfair! In all my time recorded,
such power, such grace should not go unrewarded!
The vape was opiate.
The insults, appropriate. The expression on Dave’s dog’s
visage. The brawn by the pawn shop. Salute tattoos
on the arms of Ian. All soaks, masquerading
as functioning human beings.
Al’s named each that ghastly prick, as the fug of the day
came in again,
magnolia fly-stuck where the loose let, let loose. Arse flesh
for the meat raffle. Each nail, each visit, he filed under
breezeblocks in the bogs. He calf-polish spat on his Reebok,
mirrored a young man never aged.
Narcissus ivy, window cracked. It wrapped his imagination
like the absinthe advert dress by the dartboard.
It was a story full of holes.
the crowd bemused. Tomorrow, our lonesome fuck, would be
‘same again love’, as both Al and Algernon
all too bastard knew.