after Jenny Lindsay
Wakefield, you dirty bitch.
You patron saint of brickyards and rickets,
leaky filling in the mouth of the North.
There is no better word for you than slag.
Sat out on the dead and yellow lawn
of industry, braless and drunk,
you’re hitching up your negligee
to flash the trains. Wakefield,
the ultimate lousy lay –
you mutton-dressed catastrophe,
shoving your hands down the jeans
of strangers in doorways on the Westgate run
and hiccupping kisses at Leeds.
Wakefield, you brash and brass-necked slattern
whose tongue is the Saturday turn
at the Working Men’s Club
and whose stockings have run at the seams.
Shaky Wakey – your phone number inked
in the single stall of the gents
at the Cock and Dolphin
alongside the words for a good time call…
Wakefield. You fag-end of cities;
you district of many a dirty black mouth,
all stoppered now and blowsy with hate.
Wakefield, you flag-decked capital of chavs.
I told you I loved you.
You punched my lights out and fucked my Dad.