For Home.


For home.

We can leave our books, pens, baggage in the rooms
where teachers tell not show
and spit into tin can coffee cups
pretending to save heat-
when in fact they’re lying to themselves. They want out.
Get out before the war comes, with new money, filthy money,
the money of tight lipped, “nice tie mate”, gentlemen-
who for pleasure play golf with the Ms’s and the Miss’s,
but never The Mrs.
Clip on those ties and wear that blazer, A Golf is here to stick around
and stay with his goldfish ideas and bull shit, utter bullshit, brown, phallic,
conservative ideas. He waves them around
like scarves from windows,
accept this window has a fly. Zip it down every time you want money.
Zip it down for every unresponsive email reply.
Zip it down until it hits your ground
every time Mrs A Golf wants a hug.
Children and ginger haired, beauty in the sea of chairs, teenagers- get out
in cars or buses, trains until the lines run out of much needed curves and
buffeters. See the red brick, the old, the archaic stone cracking with the cold
and remember it. Take an espresso from the grey door machinery and sip
wistful long sips until the grounds remain and the taste is gone.
Sit until cellulite is nothing but dough in your hands.
Shapes of the seat and the heat rises
until squares in France become squares in the skin.
Sit until lined contours of plastic remain imprinted like
Braille upon sweat skin, tied down by blue jean pins-
cut to look cool but fail because every whore by the pool
has the same cut shorts you have, you fool.