You said you preferred Orwell’s essays.
The way they lulled you into a sense
of the plain, transcending any given ideology
often whilst condemning or praising it.
I said – I preferred his moustache.
You said your first memory was of screaming:
Yowling, uttering your brutal stages of advance
dazed from the drop, finding your voice, or not;
Images flocking like birds of Assisi…
I said – The Rockford Files
You said what moved you was a child’s pale face.
A garden at night after a party, a wine glass
blood-red with cigarette debris, and a guy
no-one knows stroking a dog.
I said – I was that guy.
