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Poem

He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

Red Cherry Red
Poem

That fire, they said, was red as red as red
as red as a fox, your lips, a cherry;
that fire, they said spread and spread and spread,
faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;

Red Cherry Red
Poem

When I was born
I was a familiar,
a black cat, Satan’s favourite form.

Red Cherry Red
Poem

I spied a small lonely boy.
I was his beautiful red balloon,
from morning through to noon,