Exile

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Last night I dreamt
Of the dark alleyways
Leading to the Sands
And the black bags
Getting pushed around
Outside in the wind
Like a circular sleeping bag
Than a photographic reflection,

Singing through the windows
Of half torn memories
Of a delayed youth
That hung on the edge
Of the Old Arndale
Where we used to go dancing
In mops of blonde perms
And watered down lager,

Strangling our roots
Over noir-ish lights
Where bad 80’s pop
Hovered nervously
Hand in hand
With 60’s motown
Most of which
We had never heard off

Swinging emptily
In memories
Half perturbured in the light

Tied up in reef knots
Of emotion

Standing in disenchanted shadows
Looming near
We once kept
A nervous watch
Constantly watching our backs
Every time something
Came on we liked.

 

 

(The Sands was a nightclub in Stretford on the corner of Stretford Mall or Arndale if you like)

◄ Disappear and Kissing my every Scent

15 short short poems for heatons twaiku ►

Comments

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 23rd Jul 2014 11:39

I, also, really like this, Andy. It is powerful with strong, evocative images constructed with vivid language. And it pulses with 'heart', an emotional connection straight to the reader. I admire the personal honesty inherent in your poems.

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