Written by Jack Andrew Cribb

Homesickness, thrown up in the alley,
sprinkling colour over the dim brick of applejax,
the grey green of Euxton,
the sublime of midnight in Chorley,
that last great city of Europe.
Twenty years spent wearing thin pavements,
soles, patience, walking the same paths.

Geographies are memories,
swathed in grey and gold,
drug fuelled dancing in Heapey gardens while lovers wed,
meteors breaking apart on birthday nights,
kissing in the cold, always in the cold,
building dens in rolling fields,
necks slit, noses broken, hearts broken, fights, frenzy,
bags of chips shared at the end of it all.
Now all is covered in black tar,
getting thicker. My memories
taint as I tire of this place.


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