november - a night of
fart sulphur chimney smoke across
a foggy penny-for-the-guy night
along a ‘this is my street’ of doors
damp and orange corrugated lamps
pub hwyl laughter stretched
between dumb-dark chapels
glassy slag-black walls falling
up slag rubbled back trip roads
tiny shops as silent as a cat
dropping down the rubbish back
of a damp sofa ratting in turn
under the soft pearl globes
way down along station road
and perhaps to the bed-end of another
and another long stark day
of a childhood as cold as
the ice on a bedroom window
or veneered down a wardrobe
as sad as the rank urine steeped
in a bucket in a dark corner
where ne’er a twinkle twinkle little star
ever shone - not once - do you hear
not even once
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