BoySlut

November in Bridlington

the promenade is long and cold
two gulls perch on the pier-end

they scream at nothing
and the sea sings back at them

scrawny children weave
in and out of bollards

an old man eats fish and chips
with a small plastic fork

a stout moutstached lady
sits beneath the neon change sign
that flickers

like the final heartbeats of a Mayfly

the sea-mist rolls in
and on the cliff-top above the town
a small boy watches

as it pulls across this godforsaken place

with all the gentleness
a coroner affords his corpse

The eating habits of hard-shelled animals

[One]

there was always a boiled ham
in my Grandparents’ larder

for fifty long years
they sat around their kitchen table

the lace crocheted covering
filled with soiled crockery

and the shadow of Grandpa
puffing on his post-dinner Dunhill

[Two]

the wild giant tortoises
of the Galapagos Islands
mainly eat prickly pears

Darwin noticed
how they differed
from tortoises on neighbouring Islands
their shells so much thicker

[Three]

on television a scrawny
-faced nutritionist

spouts on about how food
is a social super-glue

holding together this fabric of flesh
we call family

but I roll my eyes
flick the channel
to watch Coronation Street
instead

[Four]

I’ve been adding up
the minutes lost

since you convinced me
to buy the 600 watt microwave
reckon you owe me three days

that will be written in bold
on our divorce papers

beneath the long list
of irreconcilable differences

Miss Gale

takes the $5 note
invites him onto the bed

& counts the squares
on the ceiling

as he barks like walrus
into the eiderdown pillow

when he’s gone

she cleans up
taps her naked heels together
& thinks of home