Secret Gig

Two figures cycling - one girl, one boy - pedaling quickly in
Then out of unison; her lilac ribbon flailing on the wind,
Her lilac bell clipped well to the handle bars – each one, to him, failing to explain
Why she must have some of purple on everything.

Leaning their bikes by the back wall, she hands him
A spare key for the door; briefly on her marble skin his knuckles
Seem wiry and bright - and watching -
Imagines for a moment it meaning something more.

The black crowd, the hung yellow smoke snaking weightless up
From mashed fag-ends through the dark, past stacked and stickered vinyl, winding
To the ceiling; across the floor their battered yellow stubs
Gradually annealing, fading yellow, to orange

To brown, where unseen in spilt beer they’ll drown, four feet from where his
Long-undelivered love resounds. And stuck inside the bodystream (the room
Stiffening with heat, the darkness fortifying) he pulls her face an inch from his,
Swallowing a slow gasp, clutching at a long strand of lilac and

Feeling it pass between his fingers, resisting a strange urge to fall asleep, and imagining
Alice disappearing to the city,
Darting through the dark shower, the bright lights making her
Virtually invisible.

When morning comes he will look for her at home
And she will not be there. Nor will she be
Sat beside the three-quarters-covered lilac-ink note that he finds
On the bed and will not read; half knowing
She is not there on purpose, half terrified she might be.

TEXT by Luke Allan + IMAGES by Ursula Cheng