Blue Velvet Valentine

My hand an improvised blindfold, 

I jab the pin into the magazine, Blue Velvet! Roses

of wide screen dimensions remind me of Poppleton, 

every house a castle, behind the hedge, 

corpse facades, a cockroach once

behind the bed. Dorothy Vallens, red mouthed, glamorous

in a black sheath, the boy enticed, the cinema like an ear,

his hand at times, a blindfold on my eyes,

as though he wants to be my dad, the fabric

of the seat, on the bareness of my leg,

my dress slid rather up quite high.

The Bass Clef in Hoxton, next chance event. An ooze

of saxophone, Southern Comfort and jazz, 

we go out instead of having sex, I never had it,

you, my slick haired computer whizz, on placement year,

pressed beside me by the stage, ’50s attire, a Blues Brothers

style, whilst I crush (then) on long-haired men, paisley shirts,

patchouli oil, looking past - we so out of step -

for something else, letters, once the best of thrills, 

the postman so keenly awaited in Poppleton,

the neat blue Quink, ghosted, insignificant

after I moved into halls. There were other boys.

*

So, we both rate David Lynch - could this perhaps 

be enough? Was I once your favourite girl? Fake blonde fringe

in cornflower eyes, I could have been your Laura Dern

but, aged nineteen, so what do you expect? We drifted apart.

A dice throw - cinema! another Odeon,

Wild at Heart, with someone else,

but you could have played as Sailor to my Lula had you 

not gone and got married, texting on the internet,

because you’re not allowed to meet or phone. You

are so owned.

Meanwhile I tidy basement rooms for another man,

I first met outside the White Hart pub. One day, he said,

‘You’re on probation, by the way,’ strangely dark, 

a twisted thrill.

And are you the robin watching from a fence,

the game I try to play, but fail?

Years later, happens to be Valentine’s,

as I listen to the Angelo Badalamenti score, 

all night, remember seats like velour gloves, 

you beside, a popcorn crunch.

I could have had you, couldn’t I? 
Remember that night we first met eyes beneath the Tudor beams

at Club Gemini in York? How you charmed me with a

wedding offer I declined? Came next day to see me
in daylight at the bookshop where I worked, a Saturday.
'Look, the ball’s in your court, 

anyway,' you said, alone together in the book-lined 

room overhang above Stonegate, never thinking 

this is it. 
By now we could have had a row of David Lynch
Blu-Ray discs, a house, a paddock, and a horse.