Shame
After Evelyn ‘Champagne’ King

I’ve tried to step out the shame of this. Even now the guilt piles
high like records racked on an old Dansette. I was a youth lost
in a bedroom mirror, my James Brown moves flickering light
bulbs, fuelling hate in the building site politics of my father. 
For this, I became his family secret. The boy who surrendered
to the funk and the darkness of ‘Blues and Soul’ magazine –
the cut outs of Evelyn ‘Champagne’ King sellotaped to a wall.

At after school discos I would stare at Floyd. His body
poured burnt treacle in a woollen hat, the greatest dancer
I have ever seen. He would beckon me over to join him,
to share his gyrations. I was good but never authentic.
How could I be? Lectured in the rudiments of old Enoch,
I walked away into the Basildon contradictions of 1977. 
Punk Rock or the National Front? A terror of belonging.

Time lifted my heart skywards, from Colin Maclnnes
to MLK. Reciting ‘The Revolution will not be Televised’
I began a life inside the black and white. I marched
the southern suburbs protesting reasons for those hurt
by a lack of love, justice and connection. Sometimes,
returning home, head down hard, I faced the family 
I loved through blood, but never tolerating their traditions.

And tonight, I am older in a once industrial northern town,
swaying to the music that took me, that partially unlocked
a life. I want to be immersed walking these streets, I want
to dance with every Floyd, share our spins, our moments
lost in mirror balls, backflips and tepid lemonade. I can’t. 
The heavy feet of our histories still sink me to the floor.
How do I shed a shame of nurture? Am I late for the world?