Breckfield Road North
You can create worlds
in all sorts of spaces.
Spiralling, looping, unravelling,
sparking off each other.
Trying to make sense
of the world,
of this fucking mess of a country
only too apparent
outside the front door.
Though there was
a little more optimism then,
from youth and things
not yet fallen.
In the end though,
fuck all that.
We were trying to
make sense of ourselves.
We created worlds through MSN Messenger;
We created worlds in black, sweaty nightclubs;
We created worlds on the lower floors of
Breckfield Road North.
Mushroom soup on the go,
till we left the gas on.
Diving for air
then swirling, curving under duvets.
Still, we were not quite there, yet.
More time was to pass.
A New Year’s Eve
on Penny Lane.
Then finally, on a birthday
sneaking in to the PRIVATE waterfront
to see what really belonged to us all.
Then, that was that –
no going back.
For a while at least
we saw each other.
Knew what we were
at our cores.
We had a world.
Then we didn’t.
Despite everything
I don’t think
I could ever truly see behind
the reflection of your
deep pool eyes.
Though now
I’m not really sure
that mattered
at all.
Jackie
It was an electric blue night
when we first really met.
The conversation rolled
and I ran for more wine.
One of many, then.
Even when it was day, we made it night.
At home or in London, drink and words flowed.
Over time, we moved from the
zero hours, povo vino fringe
of the World of Kulture
to its office corridors.
We kept our eyes peeled,
an eyebrow raised.
Knowing we didn’t belong
but deserved to be there
all the more.
You, the smartest of them all
with the charm they said
to remove all four legs from a donkey
and more.
It wasn’t enough though, was it?
That charm hid pain
whose depths I never really knew.
It must have been made worse though,
having to fight your way through
those corridors clogged with
bullshitters and grifters
with the same depth as the mirror pools
outside their private schools.
Tilting to whatever was in
faster than they could stab you in the back.
Could be Corbynism, could be cynicism
didn’t fucking matter
as long as it was new.
The Kulture Sektor
pulling everyone apart.
You shouting ‘salt the ground!’
on the South Bank
when Maggie went down.
They didn’t get that.
They never did.
You had
one short contract after another,
one bullshitter after another,
one bully after another.
The Sektor,
the insecurity,
the scrutiny of
anyone who didn’t ‘fit’,
pushing people to breaking.
And once you fall out of that loop
the doors close,
the people who deserve nothing
holding all the cards.
How could they?
Because you were better than them
and that always frightens them.
I am so sorry they did that to you.
You were worth so much more
than those fucking philistines.
And I’m sorry I couldn’t do more
and wonder if I could have.
I can’t even believe sometimes
that you cannot contribute anymore.
I think of the last time we had
being cut short
before the words and the drink pulled us
deeper into the electric blue.
How can we not anymore, ever?
Even when it was day
you made it night.
You made it
the electric blue night
Jackie.
*
Kenn Taylor is a writer and creative producer. His work has appeared in a variety of outlets including The Guardian, The Quietus, Caught by the River, Lune Journal, Lumpen and the Journal of Class and Culture. http://www.kenn-taylor.com
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