This is an old one, one of the first I wrote.

Sunday Afternoon

A radio plays forgotten people to lost folks.
Grandpa sits and chews his pipe.
Sister chews and sits her hair.
I watch from the corner, my mouth closed.
Mother’s in the kitchen cackling with Auntie.
Football on the TV inspires and deflates Dad.
Overcooked chicken fills the air of the house
And paints a hole in my stomach.
I stand for attention but get in the way.

The sun is out and we’re all in.
Where’s Grandma? She’s in the bathroom
Don’t disturb. Knock knock. Paul’s come round.
Out now, I bounce in the yard playing wall-y.
Paul’s no good and I win easily
Hitting the last shot at an angle,
Falling over and scraping my knees.
Mum won’t be happy,
I’ll have concrete scabs for days.

"A radio plays to forgotton people..."

When I read this line the poem felt almost 'Larkinesque'.
Some wonderful imagery, in particular concrete- scabs. Wonderful.

Ignore the fact that I included 'to', sorry John.

Your poems always seem to have film noire/impressionistic lighting -- and they 'read' like installations, if that makes sense? Very atmospheric. This one feels as though it's gone through the lens of Ingmar Bergman. More!

Spot on Moxy. I'm a big fan of Bergman. Caught the Cornerhouse showing of Seventh Seal last month. Forgot how funny it actually is.

Ah ha! It's the emotional tones in your poems, too, the intrinsic, delicate complexities and the sense of death/mortality as something to stare at until it becomes faintly ridiculous but no less profound. And the way you also go from terrifying close up to distant shot, from minute observation to panorama -- utterly glorious, John.