This is now officially Not Going In the second pamphlet. So, it can go here instead.
Playing Badminton With Morrissey
He hits the court and waits
the fey years have given way to stockiness
and with his vanity hooded
in a diffident smirk
Morrissey is here to win
The truculent shuttle swoops
high as falsetto
(Boz has assumed position
at the rear of the court.
He knows his place.)
With a rush and a push
and a bullying elegance of play
the game is irrefutably
A loss would be met only
with a feathered poisonous silence.
A win with a cocked eyebrow
and a quip
‘Oh, it was really nothing.’
His calves are surprisingly toned.
[Rachel McCrum, 2012]
*There is a story why this poem exists, involving a wet cold night in Edinburgh, a bar and a taciturn man called John who liked The…
View original post 6 more words