my body made it
back from the rain drenched pity of Sloane Avenue
the fading golden skin of a thousand pretty women
being beautiful for France in South Kensington
my body made it back

back from the heat of the Chelsea garden
where I was overcome by hunger
and history
and the restlessness of doing nothing about the restlessness of doing nothing
back from the mould that crept over the coffee cups
abandoned in our abandoned kitchen in our broken home in our broken life
back from the walk in the sunset
and my perfect kisses
and your perfect tongue
and the heart breaking peals of the bells of Blackheath

back from Northern Ireland
and the room filled with wine
where I had her in the shower
and she had something else in mind
back from the parks of Belfast
where we felt the same as ever
two aching children paused
until the start of something better

back from Wales
from the streams of my baptism
where my fires were a marvel
and my songs were keen and honest
back from the damp of my nostaligic footrot
the decay of my holy Dylan impression
my transition from King David to King Cohen
and the pink lightning that lit up the sky
over two Christian soldiers
from Nottingham

back from university
back from school
back from the heat of that draining nightclub
back from the Winter of "I have no soul"
back from the Summer that still pours with rain
back from the gym where I failed again
back from the office where I fucked ourselves up
back from the bridge where you asked me to jump
back from the birth and the blood and the lust
back from Bradford and the hills and the dust
back from the silence and the sleep and the pain
back from the rift between heaven and hell
a thousand hosannas and a thousand more fucks
a tireless tennis between infinite gods
I stride out of my bedroom and into the rain
"listen, my friends, I have something to say.

My mind, it was broken and now it is lost,
but my body survived, it is back from the brink,
let no fucker stand in my way."