Indie

Indie people
Back when they met
Pulled round
Bobbed and horny
Pinch faced and flowery
He could never have known.

Now his balding spreads
Stretching many a t shirt
Her earnest career
Is an alien breakfast
The scent of her reading
fanzines of regret.

Down at the tram stop
Sunglasses beautiful
Sherbert and boiled eggs
Hatch mini indie kids
Pointy  feet  papery
Sunny day festival
Gather ye like minded
people of yore.

But what
 is
this
chart shit?


Nice people like proper songs.


Strum on that epiphany.






 

Our best work

One see-saw snoring
Flat out on his back
The other still and curled
Like a fossil

Deep under dark and cotton dreams
They grow before my eyes
Like stop-motion snowdrops
Our best work.

I'm leaning against the door
realising my biggest loss:
Not witnessing this every night.

December Bike Ride

Flying freezing
Headlong
Into the pissing rain
And a kaleidoscope of browns
The most boring green you've ever seen
Pedalling  under a dishcloth sky.
Sweating off my blessings and sins


A fugitive from Christmas
 I roam the land 
Of couples and dog children
And day glo aristocrats
And I am gripped with the urge
To let everyone know
That I exist
That I love them.