Meditation on Disorder

Fourteen in 1970,
reared in the blackstuff and the piss,
and gone before the concrete gave
to bad fashions and closed coal pits.

You feel as though a prophet out of time
has raised his head to talk not Godly things,
but sanctified despair, disorder beautiful, a bird that sings
of coffins and of crime.

About you films and plays and shows have been made,
I'd like it if you stayed
in only those disordered sounds
that so clearly evoke
a car that hurtles down the M1 late at night,
a walk home through the darkness rent

by streetlights and windows, behind which you could be
with love, and pain, and time, if only your spirit
could be let out somehow.