Am I being noisy or too quiet, dear muse?
Politeness, the choice of weapon we choose.
We listened to ‘the season of the witch.’
This is our secret and how I wish
I adored your sleight of hand ways –
but… the silent rewriting and riot of this
early spring evening on Whitley Bay beach
last year: the blue lighthouse; the dark sand was wet;
Morrissey said it would be like this. And it was.
But the moon was always Drake-pink. And it is.
Our seat was rock, couch-sized, uncovered by the afternoon tide;
you know – weed strands and birdsong, cockles and whatnot.
I brought 2 G’n’Ts, you brought two tiny joints.
“On the rocks,” was our joke. How we giggled.
Walking back to the promenade I wanted so much
to take your hand – we were so cool and so hot.
“I make my best art when I’m in love, like when
The Byrds fell in love with Bob.”