Going past the primitive Methodists,
Hair gel smell church when I was young
I talked about how the monks would
Get drunk on the well of ignorance
And the communion wine.
We’d conceded all the lies of religion
And seen what it has done to this place
You said this is where women come to lose their femininity
Post-industrial Northern town
The building contractors nick their essence.
And you also said
You so admired the woman who said ‘the flowers smell sweeter the closer you are to the grave’
And together we worked out the right thing to say after sex.
Agreeing the Swedes would soon reach their full height,
Our brains were molded at the same time
And the order of growing up
Was with you.
Taming ourselves with the indie gigs
The smell of spilt lager
What would we have done if we had to write letters to each other? We have progressed,
So we can muddle through our all-too easy lives
To meet at the pub now and then
Take buses in the name of the environment
And see our friends who work at the Council
And eventually, stop wondering why the church tower looms
So great over our slated roofs.
It’s the building contractors who nick their essence
They could nick yours.
The ease in is smooth, a death of sorts
Joining the rest of the world
Nicked, like the others.