Disruptive Pattern Material

I was first picked up In a cast-off shop in Liverpool; Surrounded by racks of seasoned shirts Bearing names of old soldiers. “Draper” draped on an immature frame In a collage of brown and green, Overlapping and enveloping Any semblance of a past self. Baby-faced and militant, The paradoxical camo in an urban warzone. Slogans painted from shoulder to shoulder In pungent, nuclear-white bathroom paint. The smell is burned to memory, Singeing nose hairs with chemical vigour, Of dance-generated sweat, upturned pints, A lover’s aftershave, the sting of cigarette smoke. Washed once, maybe twice, But anxious eyes watched the spin cycle, Fearing specks of dislodged paint Covering my muddy canvas. Now “Draper” drapes a matured frame, The only scent that lingers is The petrichor of Northern summer Tie-dyed deep into my fibres. I bare a name that isn’t mine, Memories of a life I did not live, Scars from battles I never saw, And honours that aren’t mine to claim.