Inspired by getting a gig back in the town in which I spent the first twenty years of my life.
That town had a brewery
belched a stink that clung the clouds
on dull December days
smelt of greyness, smelt of endings,
horse-shit and head-brass
and hung there like a… like a…
That town had a factory
fake legs and wheelchairs,
flesh saved through plastic,
and fed through the jobs
smelt of grubscrews, smelt of spot-welds,
Swarfega and fags
and hung there like a…
That town had a shop
chocolate, potatoes,
opened with a tinkle,
shut Wednesday at two
smelt of wide-eye, smelt of lick-lips,
hot hands and pennies
and hung there like a…
That town had a funfair
earth-churned by light-dance
bookending Summer
with sirens and screams
smelt of fat-fry, smelt of Danger,
hold-tight and drizzle-down
and hung there like a…
That town had alleys
streaming the High Street
quaint as a kicking after dark
smelt of cobblestones, smelt of whispers,
backways and snogging
and hung there like a…
That town had a past
cannon fire and coaching inn
and something unspeakable
in the Meadows
smelt of incense, smelt of sulfur,
bullet-holes and Land
and hung there like a…
That town had a house.
That house had a garden,
had a washing line
held clothes that grew
with every passing year
smelt of fireplace, smelt of toast,
drips on the window and bed
and there at the end
the cardi that your nan knitted you,
the one that really suited you,
hung listless in the wind
like a factory, like a funfair,
like the stink belched out
in a brewery town.