Multiplastic

The Molly House Drops on the table soak into the grain And men, All short sleeves and muted colours Queue for a pint Blue, and dark grey that that was black, once Skinny jeans, comfy trainers, a safe Shirt Beards are a regulation one-eighth-of-an-inch long Haircuts are short at the back There’s 20% off all gins today Music sulks in the background Mutters to its heartbeat self And wallflowers lean on radiators I sip my cider and, in writing, wonder why There are no Mollies In the Molly House tonight. June 2024

Migrants (for Celebrate Festival, Whalley Range, 8/6/24) When I was young, the other kids Would call me names I thought unfair Names that say, “You don’t come from here” Names like Paddy, Gippo and Yid. Now, Fanny Jones came from the Emerald Isle Wore the shamrock every Patrick’s Day Escaped the famine and ran away With a man called Jim who’d made her smile Martha Burbridge was a holy terror Who ruled her kids and her fairground rides With a hand of iron and a temper beside For any chavvy flatty who spoke in error Andrew Coonan changed his name To sound less Jewish, so it’s said And nobody heard, when he was breaking bread The silent brocha that always came But me, I’ve never been anywhere I was born only a few miles away It's my migrant ancestors that let me say That what makes me me comes from everywhere I am made of shamrocks, saints and menorahs I am made of colcannon , of jigs and of reels I am made of klezmer and the caravan wheel Of shtetl and...