25B
the bear’s leg scorched a bronze bolt on black fur
too close yr grandaughter’s heart reduced to menthol
cinders scented jumpers chanel factoids &breathe
standing in the shadow of a yellow fiesta
for anti-climb read anti cry read girly anti social
the awkward silence in which psychogeography
exposed yr very own episode literary filler
who do you think you are? compressed living
private property succession of rat traps
live wires reported open electrics
mortality realised internally
meaning: you are old not seven
you are gone & permit holders only
occupy this space & mascara only
prevents a torrent & medication only
stems niagara falls bill murray style
now compose collect yrself the ghost
of under 12 pulls so heavy
lime street (generic girl poet)
chock full of humour and explicit sexuality
the descent is laden with innuendo and vice
it must mean something trains are deeply
unprovocative banal shall we try tunnels?
dear sirs i have read my lacan a little girl
dreams of big red engines swarms of bees
subtereanean plague translate: the child
mourns lack of phallus steam locomotive
too young for confession on the cusp
of sainthood her grandfather said that
seven was the age and the violets meant
she had a kind heart may she always
and may she always be true to it this
interpretation: family social history sharks
urban walking socialism feminism gender
dear sirs i have read my judith butler
violence in yr restrictive poetic (bodily)
forms repeated stylization of all vagina
poets within a highly rigid regulatory
frame rail tracks ladders in tights
virgin franchise a scathing critique of
prostitution maggie may’s concourse
exploitation ha ha ha please write
on legs not stations please admit
the accent cracks you up so kind of you
to register forgive me i have no matches
to sell no shawl to wear lasciviously
but we can talk about bessie braddock
and how she drowned that welsh village
or we could sigh with relief about the
landslide not bursting the railey walls
above my nerdish heart would have
broken is she talking about her Gwa
again? yes you will yawn as i recall
he had to tempt my aunty down from
her death with a charming voice and
sweets embankment signage
the dead streets the live wires
the hen parties the lucky visitors
the poem as a comedy sketch
what to say: the station is a circus
tent a kitchen sink a bed a brothel
what not to say: the station
is a microcosm of a city
i’m in love with
gloria
glorious. too good for tenement living. platinum, ash, streaked, memory slip. little yellow teapot, lift up the lid, multiple voices, hear them steep, whistling, the hard hum of of a class ‘a’ substance in festive voile form. gloria did not teach young children how to read newspapers. gloria did not say precocious. gloria’s son said, that kid is a walking dictionary. gloria’s daughter said her dad was a tramp, poor georgie. a brown leather jacket, a tonsure as a hairstyle. the first going cheap the second as contrition gloria had a kitchen radio. ah gloria, we all did. pop chart countdown tuppence jumper felt tip hair, undeterred voice, gloria listened. gloria marvelled at song on a stone cold landing. gloria’s mum lived in a champagne pink flat. auburn hair, housecoat eternal. first name mrs. please tell gloria about the dislike of lemonade. please tell gloria, motorway access does not indicate social mobility. please tell gloria, the new town is not dynasty . please tell gloria, that the shoulder pads will not cushion against lack of cohesion please tell gloria no amount of nail polish will release the gate please tell gloria the block is locked indefinitely
(all previously unpublished)
Sarah Crewe is from and lives in the Port of Liverpool. Her work is largely concerned with working class feminist psychogeography. Her poems have appeared in several magazines, including Poetry Wales, The Wolf, para.text, Zarf, Cumulus and Guttural. Her latest pamphlet, echolalia, is available from Litmus Publishing. She is one third of Stinky Bear Press. Twitter: @sarai_81
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