your Olympus Trip and Jesus Christ they were the two things I knew that you liked then Tom moved into Sonali’s old room God’s children will marry fast they’ll leave a shared house at their first chance Tom found the flat on Arwenack Avenue was I jealous? course I was mostly though I was reassured maybe some sweet lord would find me too getting Higher Ed on the lowest wage four nights in five we’d pull the pints at Jake’s we’d never let Tom’s parents pay your way creation started with an empty space Tom would stay at home and sculpt stay at home and paint none of us around now to lead him astray no one to deal him in or drag him out no one to hear him collapse in the shower you were singing when I left you on Woodlane the rift is deep and the rift is wide between restarting a heart and restarting a life and it holds eternities of hospital lights I found you sobbing on the steps beside the crystal shop got you drunk up on the benches overlooking the docks I can’t remember was it something you said then? something I thought? how when you’re standing on the inside the Pearly Gates must open like Pandora’s Box

AFK on the beach tonight the party’s dying left and right you’re DPS-ing on Londis wine you should have left Leroy to go it alone there are reasons good reasons for staying at home you just need these little reminders time to time the boys are pushing for a skinny dip the gameplay is so formulaic you feel sick Leroy’s putting the moves on Dave Emma is shrieking out into the waves you start thinking about the ocean and the buoy when Emma’s old friend down from Totnes flashes a pitying grin and suggests that you take a spin on his fire poi you can tell he wants to heal you with his dick what filthy casuals get a kick out of this shit?

I am wiping sticky tables when the bell rings pure and bright my smile blooms second nature then withers on the vine I let the new girl take the order I am awestruck by his nerve to show his face in this sweet place after what he did to Fleur’s a mother wants the ketchup I want to bloody scream to show the town I live in this is not a normal scene but would she really thank me if I unearthed her hurt paraded it afresh between these lattes and desserts? and could I play the white knight even if that’s what she’d want? wouldn’t the bonfire of hypocrisy cremate me on the spot? I’ve done as bad I have done worse it’s that remorse that saves me now that’s what I tell myself my innocence needs me to attack my guilt to understand the history the circumstance the bell rings the door slams the bell rings in the sunshine pure and bright in the playground on the hilltop they’re learning wrong from right the bell rings in the sunshine pure and bright everywhere still

I went down to the Poly on a hot October evening to join in with an open stage organised by friends and friends of friends we’d made the young the kind the optimistic cross-legged on the floor ready to check their privilege nobody on the door I saw a drummer to my left keys to my right the trumpeter in the centre spot his hair was shifting like a weather vane his body like a lightning rod they blew our art centre apart then they went their ways nothing much past 2013 on that Bandcamp page but who needs to tour till you’re middle-aged when our scrapbooks proudly state Choy Dragon Neutral Norway VIII we are lucky in this town we’ve our share of storms that rage year after year through the same dim bars setting out synapses ablaze anyone can tell you why it’s hard to make arrangements with yourself when it’s Gaskell at the Boathouse and Hedluv at Five Below but if I could see one show again there can be no debate Choy Dragon Neutral Norway VIII at Neutral Norway VII I saw your poem pasted on the wall you’d sent it back from Canada I was still deep in your thrall we must have spent less time together than the members of that band but it doesn’t take too long to make a couple of lifelong fans all legends need their keepers let these speakers share the weight Choy Dragon Choy Dragon Choy Dragon Neutral Norway VIII

You scrape the mold off your winter coat, wash the knife in soapy, scalding water, then place it back in the drawer. Only a couple of patches this year; the irrepressible blue-green sprouting, as always, from the black back of the thinning woolen shoulders. You double-check your efforts in the hallway mirror, rubbing away a last, lingering paleness with your cuff, and you leave your house. You leave the garden. You leave Western Terrace and Killigrew. Soon, you leave the cash machine too, and the little pack of smokers by the door. You arrive up wooden stairs into a cavernous space – its far reaches drawn close by dim bulbs, dark brick, and warm lush verticals of deep red velvet. The walls that guide your short walk to the bar are hung with jokes that only the staff are in on, with mundane photographs in remarkable frames, and with the posters of a culture that kicked back against a culture. Posters made by urgent hands, that typed things up, and laid things down. That left their mark. It’s an early Sunday evening and the bar’s half empty. I’m already there, not quite sitting on a tall stool. I hug you hello and you think about the mold. We perch uneasily until the beer is in our hands, then we settle into our jurisdiction, turning to survey the lawlessness beyond. As usual, there’s a beautiful, goth-inflected girl beside the fireplace. Today, her trademark headphones are placed firmly over her ears as if to say: ‘I live here. And you’re all my stepmother.’ There are people you know, but have nothing to say to, clustered around The Creature From The Black Lagoon pinball machine. And there’s Tim, quietly haunting the philosophy section. Oh, yes – somewhere between the posters, and the pinball, and the velvet, this pub contains a bookshop. And even that is not enough to remind me: this drinker once contained a writer. Chris arrives to start his shift. He tips an empty glance towards our empty glasses and our jurisdiction grows. We talk the always-talk – work, politics, childhood – as the room begin to bustle. You know for a fact that six of the seven people at this bar are currently seeking professional help. The other guy’s a tourist. You ask to try my pint. It’s called Pint. We talk about the sequence of back-lit paintings you’re planning to start. The pop-up graphic novel you’re planning to finish. Like so many of us here, your nimble, swift-striking imagination is matched, blow for staggering blow, by your towering self-doubt. Over in the bookshop, the poetry is flirting with eternity on the shelves. Here in your hand, the beer just keeps on coming. To your left, there’s a man in a flat cap with a deck of cards. He seems content to continue his stakeout until the licensing laws apply their invisible pressure. We’re not there yet. We still need to believe we’ve somewhere else to be. So, we move on. Natwest for cash, Oddfellows for the free pool. Jay is pleased to see us. He gets our drinks and we fail to help him with his crossword. There’s camembert in the china mouse, and some friends – friends we’re pleased to see – laughing at the table by the door. We head to the back room and rack up. The anxiety which so often constricts your neck, your voice, your thoughts, begins to slacken. You drink your Spesh. You pot the longest shot. Sam says that after it all fell apart, it took him years to feel natural in life. Years waiting to float effortlessly high in the water, instead of flailing so hard, you splash the ocean ever closer to your lungs. The same shoreline. The same frantic circles, increasing into meaninglessness. Time is called time is called time is called time.

Time is called, and time passes. We find ourselves at the other end of town. You give the orders: Milk Stout, 8.8%. Just a half. Two halves, that is. We drink outside, in the courtyard that feels like an oversized puppet theatre, readying to put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Tonight, its square stage is curtain-call full. Philosophy Tim, our Oddfellows friends, everyone’s here. The last open bar; the plughole of the evening. We begin to drift together, floating up, spiraling down, till it’s just you, and me, and a tableful of shadows. I know every one of their faces. You used to know a few of their names. Like us, they’ll crawl this last ditch to the final inch, searching for the all things it never holds. Searching for a snapshot view, taken back through the window of a Brooklyn gallery, where painted angels radiate a hidden, holy light. Searching for a panel rising, finally, perfectly, from opening pages, showing another town, running at 90-degrees to the narrators’ version events. Searching for a partner who’ll force them to live their principles, and take care of their bodies. You don’t want to think about tomorrow, but it’s accelerating towards you though a mizzle of fairy lights and stars. You know it’s best to get some sleep now, and be awake enough to minimise your injuries when it hits. Your neck, your voice, your thoughts grow thin. The ever-present seasickness begins to rise. You tell me that, for months now, it feels like all the brighter parts of you have been dying. It feels like the heat death of your little universe. Though, you guess, it could just be the depths of a long, long winter. Yes, I reassure you, yes. It could definitely be either of those things. A figure appears in the doorway; the boy who’s been working the bar. He steps out to address the shadows, moving with an energetic weariness that makes you imagine him in the coming dawnlight, bread in mouth, keys in coffee-stained fingers, unlocking a chaotic studio. That makes you imagine him sitting later, on the steps of a caravan, teaching his child to tie their shoes. That makes you realise just what you’ve allowed to drift beyond your reach. The boy arrives beside you. It’s time again. He’s gone, then he’s back. He smiles his weary apology: it’s time to move along. You’re 32, I’m 33 years old. The only thing still growing is the mold.

there are no streets there are no floors (it’s OK hey it’s OK) that I’ve not walked with Sarah Ford let’s get out to the Helford weed this way I’m a rolling king (weed this way roach this way) weed this way and hear her sing she’s gone to travel Asia in time even these streets renew (renew the same always the same) in time my friend so will you time is what will kill me weed this way I’m a rolling king (weed this way roach this way) weed this way and hear me sing she’s gone to travel Asia in second year she was reborn (weed this way roach this way) as a nameless ageless formless form bound to travel Asia weed this way I’m a rolling king weed this way roach this way weed this way and hear her sing she’s bound to travel Asia Jim Diamond is a shit me lads for he’s leaving me once more on quay that is all garnished with spilled pulled pork and slaw there was a time he wanted me that time will come again for he wants me something chronic whenever I stop wanting him and he knows not to call but we both know that he will see the tired child outside Club I sway into Bayside Grill and I know not to go but we both know that I will see the migrant with a dog to feed return to Trago Mills rolling down on Castle Beach my friend rolling down on Castle Beach I found the meaning of life typed in black and white rolling down on Castle Beach rolling down on Castle Beach my friend rolling down on Castle Beach I saw God’s plan he’d used Comic Sans Rolling down on Castle Beach

up towards the Point emerging from the trees soon you will be waltzing flattening the feet of the people who shared the days that made you you’ll be in a dimming living room with every odd stacked in your favour by the time the wine wanes you’ll be lying by the fire with the Bulgarian State Television Female Vocal Choir your hosts will drift off slowly like dandelion seeds like flower children in the chill winds of 1970 soon you’ll be waking at a friend’s house waking at a born into discord the ceiling high and strange your memory will tune up you are welcome you are safe no distortion in that feeling just the chorus flying west just singing squares of sunlight falling on a borrowed bed Oh what a gift to be alone amongst another’s books and tights the terminal moraine of their gently inching life the photos the bracelets the half-finished linocuts to be trusted with their armour and with their naked loves to be waking at a friend’s house waking at a friend’s house waking at a friend’s house waking at a friend’s reading in the kitchen a girl will make you eggs she just got back from London ‘You must be a mate of Steph’s?’ the worst of times will whisper from a radio/cassette but humanity can’t be a lost cause yet no humanity can’t be a lost cause yet not when you’re waking at a friend’s house waking at a friend’s house waking at a friend’s house waking at a

even Disney didn’t lie about the fact that parents die and they’re lucky if they fly before you there’s a single pane of glass there’s a streetlamp there’s the park there’s a trial shift in the morning selling shoes and maybe there’s a sailor out there in the dark steering by the light of a long gone star you hope that it lasts there’s a postcard full of good advice there’s a video of Newquay with Theresa and Mike there’s a shape to your face and a shape to your life and maybe there’s a sailor out there in the dark steering by the light of a long gone star you hope that it lasts till they know where they are

got together for the party stayed together for the kid on the days that she behaves I don’t regret it not one bit freelance couldn’t pay the rent not even in Redruth Dom told us about the caravan I’d read Walden in my youth Audrey discovered the Milky Way I discovered waterproofing tape her father works the festivals I am widowed every May got a dog to feel safer a little brother coming soon I’m sure five mouths can live on nothing just as well as four drive to Macdonald’s every morning to email off my proofs buy one coffee give Audes my phone then I feed her smuggled fruit I always drive back past the old school I can almost see her there still hiding in humanities black eyelids black stare she never needed anyone except to get her stoned she’d never have believed that we could get so used to never being alone in the autumn when Aude’s dad comes home I take my holiday I walk the coastal path from dawn to dusk just the dog and me we always camp across the harbour from that creaky little attic room where for one evening’s company we dredged a lifetime’s out of my gloom I sit and watch the light retreating feel the waves pressing into the dark we are swept into our futures Nick as we are swept into the past but it’s the ones that have no anchor that can’t be trusted with the blue sometimes the thing that weighs you down is the thing is the thing is the thing that lets you move