• steven holding


The Angle of the Angels Anger

by Steven Holding.

For Spen

Never mind the fact

that we stood upon sticky

rickety stages jamming a racket together,

it's the OAP grey five AM

sessions that I remember.

Trapped in my flat

with the stench of farts

and aftershave,

falling from grace once again

pouring my heart into morning after the night before thoughts,

the crystal smash of disgraced

shitfaced cherubs crashing and

claiming their space amongst even more of my verbal flatulence.

Po’ me



You were never on speed dial

so, I’d frantically type lines of hectic text

to be sent like:

“The moon doesn’t come down, so why should I?”

You would fire a reply, something

about the emptiness of empirical experience,

your acidic wit the appropriate pinprick to the inflated

dick I was in danger of becoming by

taking it all too seriously.

The next day in

the cider haze of a rehearsal space I never

explained how much it meant to me.

I can only tell

how long it’s been

by how much the

trees have grown.

In a way

I never finished writing to you,

just transmitting.

Some relationships are transitory.

Others are not.

I should never have stopped.