STOCKPORT NOIR (1)

STOCKPORT NOIR (1)

There are a million stories

On these mean, cobbled streets

This one begins

One chilly morning

Near the Market Square

There’s a guy running

Like the Express out of town

Heading anywhere else fast

His tooth-white trainers squeaking

On the shiny wet tarmac

The neon lights of the Plaza

Reflecting - Blocking out the starlight

She was the kind of woman

Who could eat an entire pie

In one mouthful

And then ask you

For the ketchup

To fix her lip gloss

Fortunes and fates

Had been sealed

By just one flick of ash

And a blink of those baby blues

She called herself “Tracey” as she

Sashayed into my office that day

Her body had been perfectly squeezed

Into an outfit three sizes smaller

On that wet November morning

Causing all the clocks to stop and stare

She asked for me by name -

Sam “The Mad Hatter” Hatman - Well

That’s the name on the door anyways

Shimmying into the only chair

She slowly lit an endless cigarette

Before blowing a long, languid smoke ring

Then the whole room started spinning

And the universe went a kind of slate grey

He was the kind of a guy

Built like a solid brick viaduct

With the brains to match

He seemed destined to become

Somebody’s arch-enemy

Most probably mine –

From the back he looked like

One hundred and eleven feet

Of pure industrial muscle

Simple, but effective and with

A head shaped like a glass pyramid

Which got to the point real quick

Martin A W Holmes, October 2016