The 1970’s

It and I are sat outside Number Nine with two friends.

Baked dry and summer kissed
Kent brown girls and a boy on
a wall of brick orange cream and brown bread.
Our feet hang like fish on chicken limbs.
Plump skinned thin boned
flop on the green flesh Nasturtium flowers
where we played
with butterfly babies and each other.

A poster paint by number view
Too bright to be true.

Then as seeds and grubs we grow big and drop
Probing the soil
our white finger roots and bottle brush creepers
reach up and touch and tug our feet down
to ground
where in the chalk and flint and stone
stiff stands the wall and I
still drip the years till now.

Dreaming in colour

Wrapped asleep tight in a box like this box
at fourteen I dreamt in red
like a dog dreams of rolling belly up for fun
and of my red riding hood
where the wolf lies red belly up too
split like her lids
red with acne…

Too much!
She was tucked up in a YHA bunk
and I was out and about
sticky in trouble with Steve B and Steve T
wrapped slept together by rain in a phone box.

And awake, and cold, and dream stopped
for no light yet but the dimmest, slowest hint toward the sea.

So we left the red box behind
and as we walked a silver road south
through the orange sheen lit Downs towns
she sank bleached and pink in her bed
and dreamt not of me but of Steve B
the wolf.

So we reached Bournemouth
the wolf, the other and I.
shaking legs and fags we stood and sucked the sea mist in
like ale we belched and howled back
and spat it like our heroes spat.

While she lay white now
a milky feast fit for a pup
or a cub
or for me.
so we slept like dolls, Steve T, Steve B and me
in a bus shelter.
Till the sun blue and the bus came
and she and me grew red again.

A mushroom space

Inside we see a cluster of grubby youth sat in a mushroom space below a tree
Shading sinuous pipes that fold them in coils of creeping, aching want.

They walked there.
Flatting a way through someone’s field, who cares!
The seeds fly free unzipped from the sticky arrows of barley
That strike our bare legs and the brown stung skin of Alison.

She’s bold enough to walk and talk with us of nothing but to be
First, funniest, biggest, bravest, boyest of the lot.
She is our centre, we satellite her like the sun, our Apollo 11
She burns us with her hot scent and wet neck.

We are friends.
One girl three boys, drowning in young.
John loves her, I don’t.
Russell loves John, I don’t.

My role is Robin Hood.
Stealthy with willow whip stick I can cut through
The thorn bush tunnel that gates around our camp.
My men and the maid follow
the sprung briars slash at our dust dry eyes
She is proceeded, protected by little John and the loan of his glasses
Chivalry arms our quest into the full bowl of the wood.
No paths, no people, no dogs on leads allowed here
It’s too dense with the dead of the winter
Still cold and moss sick, no light except us can get in.

Inside we see a cluster of grubby youth sat in a mushroom space below a tree
Shading sinuous pipes that fold them in coils of creeping, aching want.

(The 70’s series) Carol – Oh radio past blast

Carol – Oh radio past blast.
Sat back on Ercol she purrs Jame’s Last
lights up, relaxes long legged, feet up
now dragging a plume of blue and yellow from her
deep down chest.

Carol – Oh radio past blast.
Her Nescaf perched on a slender oak arm
teeters and swings along, sings along
to those silvery soothers until it slips and stains her slacks
coffee red.

Carol – Oh radio past blast.
she’s mad like a blonde girl makes out.
My fault. ‘The drip made me drop it.’
Like an ice cream nose I clown it out
but my heart sinks lower than my balls.

(The 70’s series) Fantasy about cooking a policemen derived from a French film

black fat rain-like on that duffle coat day

Would be November as we had gutted the bangers and made big ones in bean tin shells strong enough to burst like splinter farts. I had sulphur and a lighter, Steve T had petrol, Steve B had detonators from the railway sheds. These orange cordite eggs ready to fry or batter were a treat. Tramping down the St Mary’s we passed the Lullingstone where belly fat cropped menboys heeled the walls like storks and drank straights from fists. The estate is dark, lit by yellow piss stained walks planted with white dog crusts. Down a hole crouching toad-like we lit up and petrol blue seared the night fog frost with waving flares and bangs and slaps so loud that springing drunk with acrid smoke we drank our reddest hate till the policeman popped by. “Pig down pig.” Pushed flat back across the flames. His black skin we tore a strip by striped strip into scraps that sang in the sulphurous flames. Our eggs blew his thighs and eyes and thumbs like raspberries. Then we set about scoffing these scraps, in our slab patched estate of stale grey wheatabricks with the best smoked streaky we had ever tasted.

(The 70’s series) Here to hear the bluebells ring

It’s blue but doesn’t ring they never do a bluebell at night should ring like the clappers to avoid feet like ours stamping all over them instead they hide in a black mush that smelt of horse and puddle the same black mush everything else is hiding in except us friends on a mission tonight you see we are here to set fire to stuff that is everyone except her she was here not to disappoint us oh no she won’t do that for she’s with Steve and Steve won’t let her disappoint not here to hear the bluebells ring except they never do not at night not ever not after we have trod them down and she and Steve have lain it then we can let rip and huff and burn the lot down not her though she is here to hear the bluebells ring she’s holding one now see it’s blue but doesn’t ring they never do.

(The 70’s series) Swanley

Lumped in a thick chair with sag slippered feet
fatter than blisters carpets scuffed to thread
rubber yellow and crippled with flesh
stinking of stale bed he never spoke just looked
and drank in the TV cops and pale ale mouth
full of dead teeth and gas my best friends dad
was a right picture meanwhile Steve fucked his cousin
or was it his sister in the shed in the grassed yard with the slide
barking at the noises they made on their dog shitty
turf on their patch of Kentish green this England this
scrape of the South East Nr Dartford where
boys and girls went out to play in sheds and parks and station yards
and recs and woods and busses and yes bike sheds
at night till in the morning still trickling with it
he filled us in how he loved her as his Juliet dancing a Moresca spun with bells
her narrow wrists ringing sonnets till dawn when the lark
not the nightingale wrenched him into his bed.

(The 70’s Series) Torpedoes

Led by Mr Dick we rancid folk ran amock
Bowling our crud on the parched cricket lawns of Kent
Rolling girls and rolling boys we sank of teeth into our teens
Like torpedoes.

In dells and holes we poked about for mushrumps
For clotens army of headless, neckless, tat
We gassed and sat undone
Like torpedoes.

Our clog heads fugg full of hate for
The twerps that taught us nothing except
How to push and kick and maul or feel up
Like torpedoes.

We walked the chalk downs cheese skinned
Pongy, runny, pitted with black salt smiles
Cursing our strim shon sick short little lives
Like torpedoes.

Our bags burst with petrol and soft jelly syrups
Zip pocket of string, steel wire and wool
Till from the parched cricket lawns of kent
Our crud fucking flared
Like torpedoes.

(The 70’s series) The fountain.

At the water fountain we waited
Our friend had been mean to us
He had joined the group we hated
So in assembly we gave him a bag of crisps so he must
Have a drink before long. We had bated
Him well and when he tore to quench his thirst
In playtime after art, before it could be sated
We smashed him till his bladder burst.
What a fountain.