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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 friend’s 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 buses 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.
November 28, 2014