Do you remember the days my love/when we used to swoon at the fresh-cut/smell of petrol and we’d load up the soft-top/black and bronze shiny shiny/head out on the highway in our dreams/before you became an accountant, or perhaps you never did/that would have been too neat an ending/ and besides you were always scarlet and purple/some colours never fade your pale blue eyes/and your constantly startling immodesty that I could never emulate/ despite my enormous efforts/I loved you in the burnt grass of Samaria/in the lurid lights of shadowy television crews/in alleys strewn with the waste of nights of scar tissue/and you said you loved me with the tongues of angels/it’s not good to do regret/regret is for cowards/we are saddled with the life we have lived/with the cars we have driven to rack and ruin/with interiors of dimly scorched upholstery/with a blinding of headlamps in tumultuous rain/with all the crowding phantoms staring through the windscreen/with the shape of your body etched into the tarmac of a forecourt/coloured in by a lean and driving rain/and you only you gazing up/from a panoply of used defaced unforgotten secrets
