Fiona aka Flea
Putting on make-up
the edgelands of middle England I nosedived.
made friends and then lost them in the woods and fields.
laboratory of all I touched got hotter.
never took the career-shaped taxi to town.
drifted like smoke at night, seen only in headlights, through the Thatcher
beyond: the Falklands, Iraq,
and Iraq once more
the road; every skid and screech and bouquet.
was rock-salt-in-the-kneecaps sore.
out onto sofas and filled bin bags with shavings of sleep.
would hunker in bus-stops and alleys; listening out for the city of
never paid-in or index-linked.
the pavement was the sea, rushing and roaring in, trying to find me: it did
8 Claremont Road: In a Blood Room
The broken frame of a piano sulks off-key:
I stop pacing this piss-stench circle,
notice clots of blood on splayed ivory veneer.
Splintered wood, exposed wires -
broken piano lungs
twitch in the key of c sharp.
Brains on blown plaster,
a bent spirit-level nailed on a punctured wall -
a loose-boned blues.
The Claremont Road Can of Rhythm Sound System
ground glass darkly
Youth and heavy
fighting with each
Steve and The Poll Tax Riot
Do you remember the time in Trafalgar Square? A scaffold pole flung
through the police car
windscreen, the helmet-less copper punching a pensioner and Steve screaming
caaant at the copper, who was about eighteen years old, bug-eyed in blue.
Steve, me and
bloody everyone jamming crowd-barriers under the wheels of that riot van that
us; the chanting, the van trying to reverse out, the chanting and shouting
and the van getting
stuck; the chanting and shouting and smashing as we rocked the van over. Then
crowd-surge, Steve tripping, falling into the road; the police horses
charging, Steve crushed
under hooves; the screams; human, horse, ambulance. At eleven that evening I
Steve in a hospital bed, breath courtesy of a machine; tubes, lines-in and
all I could hear was
MAGGIE MAGGIE MAGGIE
over and over and over.