This Could Last All Night...

Fade Out

Like old soul songs you used to sing,
Faded; intangible and grey
Your words mean nothing.

Fuck love: it’s a fever on wood
And strings, played
Like old soul songs you used to sing.

The mirror serenades itself
As you pose, you say
“Your words mean nothing.”

Your radio, so insecure,
Choruses cliché.
Like old soul song you used to sing,

You escape. Whistling to the wind,
You walk to the bay.
Your words mean nothing,

The ocean groans and spits. You tell
Stories anyway,
Like old soul songs you used to sing,
Your words mean nothing.


A tête-à-tête

This could last all night
If this bloke don’t get a shift on.
Yes mate! Two sambucas an a light.
This could last all night,
Feels like. I want him to invite
Me... O shit, where’s he gone?
This could last all night
If this bloke don’t get a shift on.


Sunday Morning (Coming Down)

I

Twelve past seven:
27 bus picks me up in darkness,
Drops me at Breakfast-Time.
Bare knuckled branches
And half-lit windows
Beg the sky to pause;
The light-infantry advance:
Chirpy birds gossip excitedly;
A school of traffic moans;
27 yawns away,
I walk the red carpet
Paved over old cobbles
Home, to bed.

II

A whisky, a fumble, asleep
with the curtains folded over your half covered corpse.
The bed-linen stained,
the mattress stained,
and drooling from the corner of your mouth.
*cough*
Stutter.
*cough*
Mutter.
“I love you”
In drawls of thick-heavy-alcohol-breath as you pull the covers right up on your face.

III

I’m still a bit drunk;
I said to you, huddled up on the settee;
I don’t remember a thing.

Do you know when I got home?
Was anyone with me?
I’m still a bit drunk.

I remember leaving the club alone;
Do you want a cup of tea?
I don’t remember a thing.

Have you seen my phone?
Shit, I hope I didn’t drop it in the taxi;
I’m still a bit drunk.

Do you take sugar? Just one?
I got in, so I must still have my keys;
I don’t remember a thing.

If I’m this fucked I must have had fun;
Hold on, weren't you in the taxi with me?
I’m still a bit drunk;
I don’t remember a thing.


Oh, Lover

Sitting in some shabby rented bedroom,
A terraced flat in some suburbia,
Celeriac girl pulls her guitar off
Damp brown wallpaper and rips chords from its
Neck: I would leave you/ if I had to/ I
Didn’t love you/ when I met you/ Oh, lover
Picks his navel, staring at his toenail.
I would fuck you/ In this bedroom/ If you
Held me/ Like you used to/ Oh, lover soaks his
Boxers in the peach sink and plucks his nose.
I would drown you/ In the ocean/ If I
Lost your/ True devotion/ Oh, lover covers
His torso in grey felt, his crotch in damp
Cotton, his legs in familiar jeans
And pulls rolling papers from the pockets.
I would love you/ Like no other/ If I
Was your/ Only lover/ Oh, lover leaves.


Final Extract

Sat by the lake
With old soul songs
I hear your name