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My Sad Hooligans
After Thom Gunn
One by one they slip to birds,
curries, darkness.
Saturday night never lives to its promise,
though a nod and a wink sometimes does.
These men we have been
and could have been.
Wasted force spent with passion;
initials pissed against the wall.
The bully of the supermarket stockroom
sleeps drunk in the Boogie Lounge.
He wakes with a start
as the mirrorball explodes.
Tim Wells has cultivated a laugh that’s more like a caress. He walks properly. He does not slouch, shuffle or stumble about. He knows that wide, floating trousers are only good for wearing on a veranda with a cocktail in your hand. This poem is from his new collection Everything Crash, published by Penned in the Margins and available to buy here. A review of the book can be found here.
Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter – wveditor@gmail.com
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