The Angle of the Angels Anger
by Steven Holding.
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
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.
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,
Some relationships are transitory.
Others are not.
I should never have stopped.