Dave Three

Do you remember the sea, the swell and the spray, our dance of Thebes, now the kids have flown, gone away, looked after own homes, we dance on the beach, at the end of the day, all our loving on Sundays, each part of the gloam, suddenly drained, somehow alone, you grab my feet, guide me to the way, my troubles cease, I'm windblown happy, I hold your face, forget the Vanzetti, catch horizons like these, you wonder why i pray, buy me chips and peas, listen to what I say.

Dave Two

my house is in ruins, roses billow beneath the sky, death didn't bring me truth, all chefs die intestate, however things may lie, it’s better than the Prostate, even God is not immune, when there's love inside, he won't be duped, fire burns in the grate, see them how they cry, anchors guard the plates, it isn't me you fool, standing upright in the tide, seeking out the dunes, all our different blues, we leave out to dry, all my lovers too, they come to say boo hoo, their poisoned eyes alight, a relieved and laughing crew, debts gone on the fly.

Dave

In any place, when you figure it, there's always an Old Lady, while the kitchen shakes, chefs toil in fits, to get a living wage, they’re all on the make, with these new gadgets, that fly around this space, my back is out the race, no hands can fit, around the pain, it spins before my face, like a lover in a launderette, puts me out the game, hangs me on a door frame, music from a tablet, plays again and again, it'd be wrong to say, love doesn’t exist, when my wife and my mate, look like they’ve hit.

Monica Three

Sometimes with the spray, you just don't know, what you have to pay, the same with dough, and other times dates, how they ought to go, just when you say, you need a blow, someone turns up late, how they break your bones, think if you hesitate, you'll get out alone, forget about that other place, sunlit hills come with stones, maybe you'll have to wait, need a downtime not groans, wine to sip and gyrate, around crowded bars to atone, chasing those happy days, listening to the lonely crows, blow cigarettes find a mate, illusions of home.

Monica Two

In a supermarket yard, her lovely face stretched, torn by rain and dark, shining not decent, the trolley leans across, where they take bets, a spirit without a spark, laid there to rest, it's a rare clerk, not put to the test, when clearing this park, to be at their best, she works at Primark, and shops in Netto, but life is so stark, she can never forget them, they didn't soar like larks, near to the convent, if there’s ever a chart, to give us correction, bring food to no marks, we are all vagrants.

Monica the new book of names of 22

Smoking a lucky star, chasing numbers, going out the door ajar, the same calendar, my sister says 'i wonder', she's a great heart, then she bought a car, near the Rotunda, should have seen her park, right from the start, so bewildered, she floors the tar, all in tears our Ma, ten years later, can still hear your laughter, the steppes to me Da, grateful to be a juggler, under oranges in a barn, love forever hungers.