When you were young
You came upstairs frequently
And told us about
who you’d just seen there
From Bowie on his alledged
(then) final tour
To Chuck Berry
who’d arrived on stage
over a hour and a half late
And was bottled off
Almost straight after,
Melanie who sat on
the edge of the stage
singing requests
from the audience all night
until she lost her voice
and the Faces whom you didn’t
stop laughing at for ages
after their drummer
fainted and fell on his arse
halfway through their set
and stank so hard of weed
you said people surely
would have been able
to smell it at the Cricket ground
during the
following day’s play.
Each night fever pitched
with a electric atmosphere
covered in slight sunlight inside
and crowds qeuing seemingly
for miles outside to get in,
and beer which you said
that tasted that watered down
you thought they must
have bought in by the bucket
from the nearby ship canal.
Memories tied in knots
Between fences and hedges
Down Chester Road
Towards Man Utd’s ground
Or Longford theatre.
Marks left in the making
Across boarded up factories
In Trafford Park
Igniting your limitations
With your limited chanting,
Holding in your hearts
Memories like maps
Which hover between
Between a spear and happiness
Before sneaking past our father
Asleep on the coach.
(Week 8 asked us to write about shops on the high street. The above venue is now a B & Q and the piece above was going to contrast the difference between them both but alas went off in a totally different direction).
