11 September 2017


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back end of the coal scuttle

lived a boy who’s story

read like the entrails

of a fucked-up Philip Larkin

his was time well spent

he was the model good boy

at his best, he was a gold star

at his worst, a misdemeanour

nowhere ever happened

within his sterile orbit

while outside a revolution

mashed up on the streets

inside it was TV Times

and Top of the Pops

with custard creams and tea

he dreamed of some

San Francisco somewhere

where he could start out anew

but back in the corporeal

it was a Thursday night

and mum was making stew


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