There was many a time, when I wanted to say,
that Hardrow Force looked like poured sugar or
how the Ure bleeds when cut by a sunrise.
But I didn’t. I kept shtum. Talked about,
grouting methods, how alternators
are always on the blink or the odds
of getting girls in the sack with just two winks.
Northern born. What I wanted was
to paint in grease, sculpt in anthracite.
It started in the itchiness of adolescence
with desires for domestic science.
But worried that my rock buns
would rise and fall against me,
in mature overcoats
I fought wrought iron
to make functional hinges
that would stand me in good stead
for the world of hutches and sheds.
But it didn’t. I became an actor instead.
Between pints I mimed;
remember tar pocked knees kidda?,
’cause our friendships deepest of all,
and she was always bad.
That’s not love, love.
So you cry, cry all you like.
You didn’t get it. Too many syllables.
So I patted your shoulder, said it’s my round
then exited, stage right.