So much sun and so much water,
a million sparkles, like a cheap effect
- the kind that always works. The deep voice
in the movie trailer, electric guitar screech.
The feel of cobbles underneath my worn-down New Rocks.
Fruitbasket odour in the local Lush
as, sweating from the late September heat,
I ask what goes well with You Snap the Whip,
am handed soap that smells like seaside rock.
The warmth and strain of bodies, squeezing thighs,
legs spreading legs like wishbones, ragged breath,
sipped water in the breaks between our bouts,
snatched talk of girls and Manchester
and where John Godber's theatre used to be.
The fizz of lager in my throat,
the weirdness of compliments,
the paranoia of the long kebab shop queue.
Strange music in the taxi - only the strong will continue,
do you have it in you - thinking, silent, yes. Yes. Yes, I do.
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