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