That

Towns come and go


That ol’ clap trap
of a mouth rap
thinks he can talk in style
thinks he can walk the mile

— he winks,

says “see if you can keep up
with me,”
“can’t even get it up after few drinks,”
she replies,
it seems,
to the broken shards of light
exposed by the evening lamps
coating the cobbestones
as he stumbles
clobbered by three pints
of Boddington’s

just another fucking Saturday fucking night
in Manchester nearly-by-the-seaside
before the low cost airlines
drove them all away
and anyway…
it’s already Monday
so piss off home an’ get spruced up
catch the last bus, give the last cig
don’t forget to shave ye stupid bastard
except for the chin where it hit the barstool

Grim northern England will never wash the grime, that tars the mind, no matter how much rain pours on a Saturday night, or how many beers pour into brains like drains.

It is anti-nostalgia at it’s finest, from Grimbsy to Blackburn, and the remnants of all the mines and tar in-between. In pubs sit men, and women from the hippy trails to Katmandu, Kabul, Cairo, Goa and Tangier. One wonders why they ever came back.

I read about that wild pharoah’s dream, man, Amarna, new city adorned by temples that now lie crumbled in sand. He should have visited Manchester; he’d have felt right at home if you changed the sand for coal.

black rain
drips from rows of gutted rooftops
another shining Saturday
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