Hugs in Dirty Socks

Recorded live at St Paul's Church 01.05.16
www.shindiggig.co.uk
Tech: Matt Widgery
Edit: Wesley Freeman-Smith

THE GUARDIAN SATURDAY POEM

Were we not once love stood in abbey shadow and sun,
were we not once lovers at the top of bowling alleys
holding, having fun?

As you showered, I
bathed in the oeuvre of your
aura opposite,
thought of 
midnight scrambled eggs
     then bed
and the coffee to keep it company.

It’s then we woke
to the Sunday cacophony of avocados on post,
head to the second supplement in
to learn of the best twelve coasts where good lovers go to live,
where good lovers go to hide and give,
where good love exists.

If only the car wasn’t broken:
second hand, forecourt pile of piss.

the boy from U.N.C.L.E

Determined to have left by half-eight,
cats fed and plates away,
they were late.

This raconteur of the recce,
part time life model to Rosetti (among others)
had corralled cagoules onto arms,
thrown shoes their way, warmed up the car,
had marched across driveways, crossings, marshlands to playgrounds
and so far had lost none.

This was him without coffee, a fifth of his repertoire,
and they weren’t even his sons. 

IF THEY HELD HANDS WITH YOUR NECK THEN CROSS THEM OFF YOUR CHRISTMAS CARD LIST

She was selling her half of the stately home off
one set of drawers at once,
throwing armoires onto furnace floors to heat that little hearth of hers
hoping he’d notice.

On the days she delivered
barns were boxed off to the highest bidder,
individual magnified sugar grains rearranged to look a lot like The Big Dipper,
and tea was always served before supper started.

On the days she didn’t, he’d hit her
panting in the steady asthma of steam-room living.

Break the bolt of that door for the blue skies above familiar rooftops and country road corners, honey,
or you’ll have forgot that this house is not a home. 

naps owe me eyes open

She clung to his core, cake filled and warm,
as if the last fisherman pitched around a lake.
She was not gonna let go until evening
fell, until they had made their hotel;
eyes on the autobahn ahead.

They’d trickled into terraced tributaries, once,
hankered after hidden held waists on corners, continuously,
as they learnt of not letting go;
kept the sense of cologne pecked necks,
fuliginous chimney pots
and the fume of hollowed out leaves on rain soaked tress
stacked next to each other on the latent apothecaries patent leather shelf,
safe in the old factory of a shell.

Their single cylinder sang along the road
and she did not hear him singing.