I ate the hoard of magic mushrooms
offered to me by a gothic rock guy.
I laughed all evening at his TV screen,
he believed a mug of tea had got between us.
Giggling through the streets of Leeds
I came home to find a priest sitting on my bed.
I wasn’t hallucinating, my roommate
was hosting a Christian Union meeting.
For months after, I would wake in the dark
shaking as if the devil were rattling the end of my bed.
Boarding school was a depot
for left luggage and lost property.
I didn’t live there.
was placed in a numbered locker,
forgotten for years
until I redeemed its ticket
at the counter.
If you have any thoughts on these poems, Hélène Demetriades
would be pleased to hear