Rudy/Molly

A sonnet sequence, focused on two characters— Rudy and Molly (both me, I suppose)— as they ignore, avoid, disparage, argue, fight, and break down in front of each other.

The Gap

Rudy, shaky, balances on a chair.
“Shots!”. All arms up together. A circle
of the just-one-mores stumble, bear-hug their
friends. Lean in to say he is immortal:
“Mate, you fucking rockstar. Never forget
it.” Demolishing song that Rudy chants
to stop them locking up, lights off, with not
one more rum coming. Worry nothing lasts,
til Billy brings him down so they can dance.
And Lucy dares him, “you and I will crack”.
Then Pete (all messy): “is there any chance
that you love me?” Rudy won’t shake the gap.
Last call— Fall out into the sodden night.
“Where’s open?” They debate, always polite.

Courting

Molly’s life is too full. White eyes of kids
circling her dirty toys— hard focus
on plastic wheels in soil. Claw, shovel, dig,
feels breath on her neck, and in with the dust,
warmth. Kids as still as old dropped dolls. Then, bikes
over, push, more pull, branch all grubby hands.
Still playing, on bench seats. Oak floor, dim lights,
sipping black tea under slow spinning fans.
Long table stretched out. A seat taken says
they are good friends, behind headphones’ hissed bleed—
vague family— no faces, and their heads
bobbing out of time slightly. Glance and she’d
caught: black hair, dyed maybe? A cautious child,
looking over screen light. Half-second smile.

First Meeting

But I didn’t call again. He is still
a loud laugh. Still buried in the local.
He is still. Maybe new things too, until
I remember he was only social.
I could fill him with half-arsed plans and schemes—
a mad night his pissed games had the whole club
rolling— but there’s nothing to them. Pipe dreams.
All noise in the pub when we can’t stand up.
Who knows why I keep the others close. Just
hungry to go on about some hazy
schemes and plans, maybe? Or it’s more the trust 
that they will trace my flat outline and see
old nights worn out to calm. Like I’m dozing 
off watching his brown quiet eyes closing.

Freshers

Don’t look past him. Just tip onto the grim 
mattress. Her lipstick is moving around, 
in with sour cider breath. Plus ears ring
from that raw PA they heard. Taste and sound
louder than the background. Worn t-shirts off,
but buzzing street lights shove in, keep asking
if panted words in her ear are enough.
Millions. End up like a choir blasting,
wiping her out. But they are off early—
six maybe. And him too, with not much more 
than “thanks”. Squinting between the curtains, he’s
already gone round the corner before
she realises she’s forgotten his name.
Ta for showing me your fear, all the same.

Gig story

“lonely,” close into his ear. Rudy says: 
“Shit. Well, to be fair… she’s well rid of you!”
Half come back: “At least she took me away 
from these sweaty bars. Just go down a few.”
“Mate: drink that Stella, this shot, and fuck her. 
Choke down vodka with me, and stop dreaming
she’s what you’re here for. Grim, moody wanker.”
Just trying to rein him in from screaming
“Help! I need her to forgive me.” The crowd 
push and shove every time the guitars punch,
and we squint at each other, then shout out 
(all the men lined-up): “They Don’t Give a FUCK
About Annny-body Else!”. Rudy kicks
up his feet, arms over arms, slops a drink.

Strange meeting

The long wait for me. All that missing. You
hold your grin, ignore the circled gang,
tail-end of laughing. Keep one thing we knew
about love: we’d gone way past trading gags
when you admitted every face you’d lost 
(before I was one). The sorry, sad state 
of remembering a smile called Molly,
still hanging on. Or, lies. Like any mate
around the table, watching for a gap 
to cut in. We laugh, then sip, smear foam off 
our beards. End of. “Just” sounds harsh, but perhaps
it’s as simple as that: one dim night of
us shout-talking, under strobes, beats screaming. 
Your voice in my ear was a nice feeling.

Legend

Forgot his name. You know, the gangly one, 
looked old when young, passing out the Rizla
like confetti. Gonna be huge. Damn! Gone. 
 Remember, he rambled about his love 
for the dawn on the wet road home? Turned from
pulling and fighting, and said “That Sun is 
waking up to me!” (to no-one). But come
on– cocky twat, full of shit maybe. Gives
me hope though. Bet he didn’t drift. Right now: 
wheels turning, making stuff, sat with friends, deep 
in love. Legend! His face is just a cloud
of smoke rising from between craggy teeth.
It helps me sleep– to keep all his crazy 
 shit spinning, even when it gets hazy.

Still

But I didn’t call again. He is still
a loud laugh. Still buried in the local.
He is still. Maybe new things too, until
I remember he was only social.
I could fill him with half-arsed plans and schemes—
a mad night his pissed games had the whole club
rolling— but there’s nothing to them. Pipe dreams.
All noise in the pub when we can’t stand up.
Who knows why I keep the others close. Just
hungry to go on about some hazy
schemes and plans, maybe? Or it’s more the trust 
that they will trace my flat outline and see
old nights worn out to calm. Like I’m dozing 
off watching his brown quiet eyes closing.

tremuhysterintoxagirapt

“Knackered out, in his eyes. Mostly staring
down ice in his glass. And hardly a laugh. 
 Looks like the night’s fucked, so we try jeering 
out a smile, and then he just breaks in half.
 There’s one long pulled-in breath before the howl:
TREMUHYSTERINTOXAGIRAPTJOY!
Scream. Ache. Jump. Love. Laughing wail. And a growl.
 We snap our heads and all turn into boys
when we see it tearing around the snug,
pulling nick-nacks off the walls, calm chewed up.
  Try to pile on squirming. Make sure its drugged
on sambucas lined-up (wilds to nightclub).
All that, instead of just “I’m not alright. 
Weak from no sleep. Don’t go outside at night.”.

Huddled together

All boys in the playground. Hard winds blur out
your choked old men. Drinking. Kicking. Fucking. 
Shove elbows in when the bell goes. About
to fight, but a fading slap keeps coming
back. And since, as you retch each new matte gold
Special Brew can, lurching towards the sink 
edge— white, slippery ledge. But, all the cold
floors your head hit cracked nothing, when you blink
up in the morning, find your flat feet, keep. 
A hard bastard: me up on your shoulders;
you pushing through bodies poured on the street,
legs sucked down like a long marching soldier.
Some swig and swing, end up tipped off balance.
Dodging, I can feel your arms around us.

Chore

“Even your whoop-swung crack-glass hard-laughs come
a second before the long stare. Picking
 at a wet beer mat. Doe-eyed “keep me from.”
  “Glimpse, hug, lift, shelter, turn me from” bingeing.
Spare me! Sucked shots burn me out a second too. 
I watched the headlights on the dark bend, soaked, 
and lent inwards. Rain heavy in my shoes.
Squint and glimpse light between pub doors to cope. 
Lurching through sweat-steam, our grey smirks standard.
The other constant: you so rapt in hard 
spirits that you can’t see how it’s handled:
You just don’t weep a single, fucking, word.”
Slips and spills night. Steadied by some kind girl 
I knocked. Told me: “You two have the same snarl.”

More of the same

7000 days later. Still sat here.
A cornered scowling fixture. Sometimes, when
you look at the bar, I look at the floor.
Show how you tell when the pull’s wrong, again.
Who knows why, but we turn our half-eyes out. 
Fucking flood! shouting mid domestic still
holding hands one kid chasing laughing crowd
shoves with scarfs up nervous maybe he will
cane slips on leaves but she catches herself
big bloke all red around the eyes girl kicks 
a bollard. The edge of everything else
we watch together. Through a pint glass, quick
look, and then “One time,” broken by a cough. 
Rough clearing your throat. See you going soft.

Sores

You’re roaring sobs again! Scrunched up. Your fists
keep smearing tears around. Wet-down greasy 
hair in knots, and your foundation in bits.
No point coming out, from what I can see,
and no mates when the only thing you show
is your howling. It’s a sight. It’s a shame.
 We end up sat on a bus stop bench, so
you can ask how I’m so sure again.
With straight lines! Dig through my skin. Tap my bones.
Listen! They are ringing back a sharp note.
Even when the night’s done, everyone knows
I still keep a steady tongue in my throat.
But you— spin, squirm, picking at scabs nonstop!
One more talk about “me” won’t scratch the spot.

Sores II

We sang again tonight, huddled over
black water stirring. Long-still. Calm. Until
someone said “When you talk about closer, 
I hear rocks”. “Say there’s a gap you can’t fill,
and I’m back with her, looking out across 
the pond, approaching love”. And yes, it hurt
when brother just made it his round. Grin glossed
that “we’ll be fine” lullaby. Never worked.
Drowned not searched us both, hanging over a 
round table in the corner like a raft.
My tear and cry and tear and fight choir,
pick at our sores like we’re hoping to crash.
I love that man, yelling over the crowd.
Everyone there could see he went without.

Carrying on

molly, antsy, remember being lined-up outside the venue
face to face? 
 I said these hard lines sting
rudy, alchy, you pulled another face
 the fine line between harsh and a laugh, so I
shouted “shut your face!” over all 
shoved through the line to get served
those straight-faced reasons I gave for love
feeding snarky one-liners about being fine
your half-eyes said you were off your face again 
to try and hold the line
so I slapped you across the face
molly, baby, that was crossing the line
to twist your face from the music blasting
but decades along the same lines
before you stared me in the face
 meant you had to draw the line somewhere
there! rudy, lovely, showing your face to the camera
lined-up again
no stoney-faced fuck-up
 just back stood in the dinner line
scared to lose face
but