The sound of stomping outside,
where is everybody? what’s happening?
a steady marching sound, why?
A woman crawls out of the TV,
she chases me into the kitchen,
under the table I try to hide,
“What have you done with my mum?”
She laughs, no one else is in the house.
The ground is shaking, thudding,
they’re still marching, why?
Slate grey, giants of stone, a mile high,
an army in our garden, but why?
Left, right… left, right, left!
One of them reaches down,
ripping the roof away and staring in,
breaking rank for a moment
to look me in the eye.
an intro that makes me sick to my stomach with nostalgia,
all those memories of those streets gone midnight,
in a perfect world.
Views from the windows of trains and coaches,
Watching my friends get high as I smoke cigarettes and drink red wine.
Building fantastic modern art statues out of living room furniture.
Dancing with our legs half way up the wall and laughing so hard.
Wandering around art galleries alone in cities miles from home.
Being an impromptu master of ceremonies at a stranger’s house party.
Crying and wondering “why doesn’t he like me?”
You cry and we tell each other secrets that we keep.
Watching cars burn in the street.
venturing around the park after leaving the bar.
Wilding laughing and wilder dancing moves chemistry to the pigs.
Motion sickness or nervous energy occupying early morning transit.
The sound of the clock ticking to an end,
drawing back the curtain,
a theatre of drunken smiles and music telling me my tales every time.