The happy ghosts of Corbyn St

Corbyn st.jpg

I met someone a while back, someone who made my life more fun at a time when I needed it more than ever. It didn’t work out but my memories of that time, in a remarkable flat on Corbyn Street, north London, still glisten and gleam with possibilities, joys and smiles. Those memories inspired these words.

Fun on Corbyn street

The crippled man went for a wander
A tired and despondent meander
Looking for answers to solitude
In the miasma of Grindr

A face appeared, angelic
Somehow, inexplicably, reaching out
To that sad relic
A chance encounter and a laugh in the dark

Such fun they had
Rolling around together
Much unclad
The tired ears of the angel’s
Flat mates driven mad
The gaze from above
Hilarious exhibitionism to drive back everything sad

Screeches and laughs
Lying on a fatigued mattress
No barrier from the prying eyes
But no care erected as a buttress
They shrieked through Drag Race
Sashayed away
Ready for another iteration
Of glorious play

His parents loved the young sparrow
Admiring his looks, his smile, his stories
Like most things it had to dissolve
But that fun, that laughter
Will remain forever.
Of happy experiences,
They serve as eternal reminder


His brief gift

Eyes somewhere between ebony and gold
Lips so soft my skin went to them
Like a magnet

A laugh: high and full of youthful mirth
And those gymnasts stared down
As sweat and tenderness collided
And we cackled at the madness of it all

It was Never meant to last
But he called me beautiful
I’m glad for that
So very grateful
And now I walk on still
Thanks to those eyes and lips

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