Fiona Sinclair

Satan spends Sunday at a boot sale

His devil’s face is like a prank played
with indelible ink by mates as he dozed,
but hair trained into two budding horns
whole body pigmented toadstool red
suggests he savours with theatrical relish
the shudders, shaken heads, stares that follow
his Sunday stroll with wife and grandkids,
inwardly ‘Ha! Ha! Ha s! ’ as stall holders pray he does not
pause to browse for tools, electrical goods, souls.

Of course the real Satan would disguise
as the grey haired gent in beige fleece, brown cords,
twinkling as his table is mobbed by women
eager for his home grown organic apples.

Clothed in Memories

He recalls favourite garments with
same transcendental gaze into past
as remembering Norton, Ducati, Triumph.
At 17, a Here be Dragons trip north of Watford gap
to course in Manchester. Only land mark that registered,
clothes market under railway arches
colourful as Sgt. Pepper album cover,
where he found herringbone Oxford bags,
with flares, high waist, indigo dandy twist.
And on a rainbow rail of afghan coats
one cobalt suede with white coney trim.

Was it just you so foppish?
but all his mates took inspiration from favourite front men:
hunting down in indie boutiques, Hendrix hussar Jackets,
Bowie spangled stacks, Jagger velvet flares,
Accessorized by hair so long your Granddad
Thought he was a girl from the back.
But no girly squeamishness in face of a ruck,
rather platform boots ideal for crotch crippling,
shared tips for getting blood out of a shirt,
becoming as adapt with needle and thread as a spanner.

Now Marc Bolan, Rod Stewart, Bryan Ferry
are replaced by memory slipping lead singers
who come and go like office temps.
And young men whose warrior avatars fantasy fight
whilst they online skim shop Matalan for polo shirts,
for whom under the bonnet is unfathomable as
brain surgery so leave cars at Kwikfit,
killing time in Burtons buying another pair of jeans,
lunch time dash into Next to grab they’ll do brown lace ups ;
every garment forgettable as a drunken one night stand.


Fiona Sinclair © 2017

Sheffield Steel


Even in the 70s Sheffield’s steel crucible
forged only macho men.
So you witness protected your identity
behind long strides in black Doc Martens,
wiping dirty hands on brown overalls,
hunching over roll ups in navy donkey jacket.
But weekends deployed gay spy-craft:
whispered Polari ,
keys coyly slung from belt loops,
gold neck-chain’s glint,
leading to stomach churning cottageing in gents,
palm prickling pick- ups in blind eye pubs,
heart racing rendezvous in suburban bedsits.
Hastily pulling back on your butchness
for the late bus home,
drunken lads still saw beneath
to the pansy, queer, fairy,
crouching inside and dealt with you.

Then the flit to London, in Soho’s sanctuary
released inner camp gene genie,
with nature Kohled eyes, mocha skin, lean body
you swanked in tight white tops and tight white jeans,
watering mouths following your Marilyn wiggle
down Old Compton Street.
And shaking your booty in ‘Bang’
added rock star notches to your bed post.
Kept your tongue Sheffield steel sharpened
as you deposed killer Queens.
Outside the Soho ghetto still set upon on underground,
but took your beating with ‘Whatever’ bravado.
And weekends in 6 inch pink diamante stilettos,
scarlet mini dress, Blondie wig,
you waved your purple feather Boa in society’s face
sprinting across the concourse of Victoria Station
en route to find heaven in ‘Heaven’.

Fiona Sinclair © 2017