What happened to the local rock stars?

What happened to the local rock stars?

Do they stage dive into ball pits
with a clan of seven kids
What happened?
Are they still ordering £2.50 snakebites
propping up the bar in drag
2am face full of kebab
chuck it all up in a cab
What happened to the local rock stars?
Can they finally dance now they've a newborn in their arms 
Find a  nostalgic trip through the jangle of indie music
Is it property ladder this, double driveway that 
succumbed to pre retirement debt and senior fashion from M&S

What happened to the local rock stars?

Have the edges softened, angst a false alarm, do they now meditate twice a day to keep calm 

Has the hack into the mesh of a microphone

become a quietly distressed thought alone

What happened? 

Stop the boats

They're coming over here on their boats. At 16 knots with staterooms.
Some have luxury spas with fully equipped gymnasiums. 

They'll moor up down the coastline, buy up the public square,

charge a premium for a box room, let the ruling class compare. 

They're coming over here on their boats, yachts of 300 feet .

Beneath a luxury dining room, you can choose a double ensuite

They'll moor up down the coastline. In a cinema,
drown out city sirens, in front of film noir

They're coming over here on their boats. met by beggars in town.
They clench those hands up tight,  get them punching down

They'll moor  up down the coast line, make an ally of an MP
make sure it's understood that, they'll fix the economy. 

They're coming over here on their boats _

They're coming here...

 without life jackets.

Amber leaf

It's that photo again —

where we are lopsided,

and look like we haven't slept for days.

Those nights we trod every hit into the carpet,

flipped coasters, thumbed brown bottles,

passed I love you round

like a pack of Amber Leaf,

Your fingers clutched 

my wrists in this vortex

as we moshed on the high line

over bills and work 

Then we’d puncture the truth home

into polystyrene boxes of chips.

I’d hold your hair back

while you were being sick

over a future where

 we'd no longer need each other —

You,

the same,

for me.

Umbrella

My umbrella was at half mast.

The town was in a mood, you

couldn't separate damp socks and streams.

 Drains and autumn leaves. 

Hand on the crank,  fighting in the wind, 

the assembly of metal ribs were going to take off, rocket high. 

They always do.