Tongue twists a grim night out
Songs of the underpass, sung in
a monotone on the mirror still canals
Those nights when life went out
For the give-us-a-chance young men
Into the darkness, the deep dark, we
venture, to find poets in verse and one
in song, of Irish childhood.
Monotone lives drip blue into the flaming
canal from collapsed chairs.
Sulky shadows lost in Lewis arcade where the prostitutes
collect walking the night with thee
If they keep
building Stockport up like this
we are going to become a city.
Not on the menu trying to find
a space to write on
I follow the drift of Miles Davis trumpet
down a forgotten city tunnel
I’m going to spend a penny
She didn’t want to do it
At the bus stop holding hands while it keeps
on – – – – Raining raining raining.
