Simon Jenner


March 6th


The toothed aroma of the municipal

smoke, a drift of early March, studs its soft

calendar of cumuli, this date snatched

from the park’s brief pulse of crocus strip

to the acid tenements you flung yourself from.


Three weeks on, your shivered life was a

pyramid inverted back again by radio, shy

showmen of expiry: a rag doll, lying there.

You, proud in despair and child, elude their

shrink, sound-bitten image of twenty-five

years of solitude; repeated.


This day I started writing, you were written

up and out, tape-wiped to a yellowing

memo in some head, scarred to a few more,

like the self-harm stripes your kids would learn

down reverb damp stairwells

spiralled out of them:


Emblem of eaten-out urban shells,

early eighties, my fade-out contemporary.

Now waged, a shout from your block,

I’d look out, ashamed of its gaunt spread

of stone-dropped silence


I’ve drawn to closer as I come near

lichen swart, a gulfed oval of brutalism

condemned by a flurry of social

engineers, to flay your children now

taking your station of blasted air

for their own site-bled vigil, as if

the blood was theirs.



Simon Jenner © 2008