Response Poems 

When I Spent It Like Water

by Bob Cooper

And though we sang loud no-one could hear

until closing time’s light was spilt like Black Label

that glared on the Formica, the wet floor,

and in my head like Jimmy who’d joined us,

who’d stammered about his muscles,

the speed he’d took – try some? –

it stared, it was that hard, that empty,

though Susie and I were laughing

and the all-night film

we’d queued for in the drizzle,

where we’d shared Pop Corn

after the curry from the take-away,

that we’d hoped would be strong, was slow

where Dracula’s mouth reminded us of Jimmy

though the women he bit were made up,

they sighed and smiled like no-one I’d met

and then I felt sick, staggered to the loo,

tried to come back when I’d cleaned myself up

but they wouldn’t let me return,

My ticket’s in my jacket in the third row,

and when I sat down you were asleep

but then you woke while the stake was hammered in

said my fingers smelt of garlic

and the air was smoke like the mist on the film

and dawn was as soft as kissing your neck,

your perfume on my tongue, and we strolled

over the bridge, your hand in my pocket

counting loose change, while swifts dived beneath us

and seagulls were black on the golden water

which gleamed like the £20 pound note,

the first one I’d had, and all I had left

was for that day, for us, for the rest of the week.

Night Trip

by Mick Moss

It was like
wow, look at that
oh far out, laugh
is that real?

the black wet tarmac shimmered
and glittered
like the universe
and buildings breathed
like us

and as the sun came back
the sounds of traffic played
a motorbike, a fuzz guitar
a lorry, the bass lines

easing the electric shiver
as wonderment levelled off
and the proper order of things
was re established

we walked home
changed
forever

Midnight in Plymouth

by Stuart Nunn
 
If Hopper painted landscapes he’d have liked
the view from this hotel. Under sodium
the deserted roundabout braces for tomorrow’s rush,
 
and the terrace of bedsits over there folds
its arms and won’t divulge what’s going on.
The couple below my window, like chewing gum
 
stretched out to breaking, say goodnight and part.
They may not meet tomorrow: his dad’s home
and the manager of Household Goods wants her.
 
I lean my hands on the window sill,
my forehead on the glass. The room behind me

is empty, and now the couple are gone.