Monday, 26 October 2015


always in the same double breasted black suit
shining at the creases and cuffs from age and wear

sewn from some Co-op unkillable man-made fiber
that flapped like bats in the fucktown winds

blowing round the bus shelters and bread smell bakeries
and always a faded shade of beige M&S jumper

of loose mobius threads and bobbles and hangnail loops  
and his thin hair hung shoulder long and greasy grey

and dirtied the frayed collar of a washed-out dress-shirt
and his sideburns were great wedges of salt and pepper thatch

looking like a gangster chauffeur from the golden Krays days
who had tumbled thru hard times into harmless madness

and he wheeled a brown plaid zip-top shopping trolley
like old ladies fill with wool and a whole lifes cash savings

with shopping-stuffed plastic bags tied to the metal handle
and his pockets bulged with huge handkerchiefs like sheets

and great bunches of mortice lock keys like a prison warden
as he hurries from supermarket to charity shop to bank

i used to see him standing and pacing impatient on street corners
tapping a Timex while he waited on the bus routes of his mind

for decades he never changed from his strange rut of strange time
and now the streets are empty of Barbaras brothers analogue rush

i worry i may have to step up and choose one final outfit
and replace him with my shape for the next forty effing years


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