Green my vacant room for a minor player
of the harpsicord. Can’t help my heritage,
stout and beer-drinking: calves thick with
muscle, tending to heels. Pedigree
weak but soul willing (so far so wrong).
University, yes, and such an adherence
to the literal. Several excellent books;
frightened of self onstage; cut off hair
to spite nose. Still, you like these old forms,
fading records covered with white film
like a cold chocolate bar so you see
how they scratch when you spin them.
Here beats the heart of a working class
half aspiring to a pretension it is too afraid
to mock. Where are you now, Beveridge? Bolton?
Oh there, in the audience, adoring—I couldn’t
see you for the followspot. Daddy dearest,
I’m round like a kitten and my kitten teeth too.
So soft, my white jumper like any boy’s beard.
Being Astrid Lorange
1 February 2017