love song


Brass plaque screwed into stone
lacquer so thick on cheap paneling
it had become one of those evenings
and granny’s money would sort it,
the world would spin for them
throwing lotus tiles at their feet
Red wine clinging on with a sense of improvement,
after work appraisal and Swedish clothes
to make you like a god, calculated   simple     white
the unfrayed edges and neat hems,
they meant that we were happy, above

lights cast shadow making us look chosen,
making the panels of the pub seem fake, now
that seriousness was just for racists and the ill-informed,
having not read the article they didn’t know how
important it was            such an important article,
comfort through their own ignorance,
making the wrong choices, enjoying
the shit art                     shame though
some of them were just kids and they
just don’t deserve that, maybe we
could adopt
the thin ghosts of precious

metal children labouring from somewhere
else? Bicycle-man clips his legs into the crank,
thought about salmon fillet inflating the clear
lung, cut corners, swirling in the heat
of the purity ball as father and daughter.
The others slipping around kerbside in
a fluorescent shoal, their maws slackened,
grunting, their corner sofa black leather
Dream Home in wooden letters, their life
goals working better, their child slaves dancing
in heavy cobalt circuits, unseen; and I hear a phonecall,

its a song they’re singing straight into the air, it goes:
our love is a water slide in Dubai, our love at night
is watched by guards in the compound, our love
works in Saudi Arabia together, and the male part
wears shorts by the pool whilst the female part
is a cover
, and he keeps going: we will never leave
because everything we need is here for you,
our love will fall from beneath us over and over
again like thousands upon thousands of money,
then his voice bended at the lights and got lost
like a secret rose tattoo, like a public record of an angel.

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