two brown boys kiss on the ramp by McDonald's

and I have this small feeling just a thought really

that Brum is not this big cultural melting pot it's

more like raw ingredients all sorts of them just

jumbled like the roads at Spaghetti Junction like

ivy scrawled on fancy white-brick pubs like night

falling in Sparkhill and you barely notice because

the air is so thick with sound you can practically

drink it there's this idea that you can take the man

out of Brum but the man is still the boy kissing

another boy goodnight the man is still the ball

bounding along the street at the neighbourhood

cricket match the man still wonders if anything

is ever beautiful beyond nostalgia but honestly

what is the city if not his own anatomy what is

the sky over Ladypool Road peeling from blue

to pink to navy if not another kind of skin what

is the word for the narrow path I will carve onto

this earth is it the rain I'll take to Scotland is it

the rotis I'll keep in the fridge or is it the blood

I felt beneath your lips when we kissed at the

threshold the lamplight bright as a comet the

sheen of rain on your skin when you told me

just go be stupid be beautiful somewhere else