Skip to content

From Protest of the Physical by Andrew McMillan

August 12, 2012


from ii


I didn’t know it would be the last      love

is giving everything too easily

then staying to try and claw it back


nail   spine   pulling at you from inside

clothes still on   the verge of undressing

and everything we were was your hoodie


hallway up your body

and my cock half out in your hand

and your stop it in a way that meant don’t stop


at least not yet and the swift tug

of shirt over head for the soundless spill

and the door      your dad




town that lost something

town dropping the biggest lump of itself

watching as it rolls into a split in the earth


town on its knees trying to find it

town that shrank into a clenched fist

that sweated on itself


that slowly closed one day so that the roads

tied up together and people were crushed

shouldertoshoulder as in a lift waiting to descend


town that sunk from its centre

like a man winded by a punch

town that bent double    carried


young men   and women   and younger men and women

as long as it could but   spinebroken 

had to let them go




from iii


qualitative research into pub names in Barnsley

The Mount   The Corner Pin   The Closed Since the Smoking Ban

The cross Keys   The Smashed Glass    The Bridge    The Soviet


The Echo of the Stopped Machine   The Station

The Longbow   The Wheel’s Reinvention   The Junction

The Room   The Glass Still Half-Full


The Walkabout   The Joseph Bramah   The Keep Drinking

The Mill of the Black Monks   The White Bear

The We’re Still Here


mist frosts across the ploughlines

fires smoke themselves irrelevant

your most loved song is overplayed


and worn by too many singers

waking to a stomach fresh dug   churning   forgetting

all but the briefest inflections of your voice


your mother called me to the window   fox in the road

it seemed young but maybe foxes age more gracefully

than us   it was early afternoon   you were sleeping


it seemed lost   wrong place   wrong time

we just watched it burning

down the avenue   red scar


a field on the way home

Mrs Ford with her dog   a man flying

a model aircraft   just like a real plane   only smaller



from iv


drunk man to the drunker woman

where you from     Barnsley



Dragging the word out   the way people do

stretching the tighpacked line of vowels until there are gaps

that could be rode through      can ya spell it?


station   walkhome    man in the doorway

of The Mount looking up   g night luv

theory   the moon isn’t just for poets


glimpses of books on trains   C.S Lewis’

Mere Christianity   we will all be cured of our sin

at whatever cost to us   at whatever cost to him

One Comment leave one →
  1. August 13, 2012 1:34 am

    Oh, bravo! So good.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: