Purple Rain by Antony Owen

For Joe on nights

Come my brother to the unpaid stillness,
I’ll play you Purple Rain and the squabbling shit birds outside
who are tired of trying to fly like you and feed the mouths that never fuckin end.
Come my brother and make home of my house,
I’ll ping us a Findus Lasagne and pretend we understand romantic poets
from spineless folios, when women were ornaments and men displayed ‘em.
Come my brother and I’ll play old forty fives,
we can drift away in Muddy Water’s waves and be kids again
chopping heads off cheap lager bottles and livin’ it up like Kings of fuck all.
Come my brother to the place that made us kin,
look how old our Ma is, yet see the way she looks at ya kid;
she saw who you are now the night she wiped her purple rain from ya.
Come my brother and share your woes and weariness,
the greatest men are those who love the world before themselves
then visit their families in flesh or photographs, depending on the dealt hand.

Antony Owen is from Coventry which he often draws from as inspiration for some of this work. With four poetry collections which focus largely on identity and displacement he is looking for the places where poems build a sense of what home and country mean these days. Something like that.

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