wow

wow

 

it used to be all fields you know

and the boys who used to drink there

bought houses there

now they are 25 not 16

and it’s a ghost town by a train track

empty concrete semi-detached shells

built on invisible money

now these boys are stuck there

and the long grass is gone

the cans are gone

and gone is throwing ourselves up by the railings

as big orangeBelfastscreaming trains raced by and

we’d scream back at them waving our cheap cans

and stolen wine and the grass was up to my thighs

so I couldn’t tell if the ends of my corduroy flares were wet

it was so cold that my feet were numb

 

each time I pass those houses

I feel a little old for remembering when they were just fields

where boys would dare one another to take off their clothes

as late night trains passed,

in threes were the boys, naked in the long grass

laughing and drunk and young

 

I thought it was funny that they called them the cornfields

the grass was just long

there was no corn or anything like it

I think it is funny that it is called Clongriffin

I was only there twice or so

but now I always will be

kind of

 

 

 

griff

shush

shush

for ceri

 

 

you are a bundle of alphabet parts tangled

into pet-names unintelligible

infantile sweet talking in tongues

while you wash the dishes

you are words i have never met

words i can’t assign objects to

only the flavour of your skin to

or that strange brightness in your eyes that

i have never seen in another human living thing to

you are my strange vowels and consonants

secret passwords uttered in low tones in public

screamed while tearing around the new apartment

a tiny fresh country with ugly old curtains

a shire, a borough belonging to us

it’s sole two inhabitants speaking a language incomprehensible

to anyone outside of this

 

xx griff

(2 hours late, my apologies xx)