George | K Patrick | Granta


K Patrick

Keep telling me all about men. Like the way George
Michael filled his jeans. Mothers like a man who can
fill his jeans. What a way to put the ache somewhere,
right behind a rigid seam. Stiff denim, stiff upper lips,
stiff country we live in. George Michael I love you we
have something in common. I know enough about
Faith. A little bit of God in the beginning just to prove
there is no God in the rest. As a word, organ has a
beautiful double meaning: songs written in meat
about meat. George after Pride you crashed into that
Snappy Snaps. I think your Mother had recently
passed? Someone graffitied WHAM! into the yellow
damage. Humans and their ancient ability to make a
joke. You considered yourself cursed. In me this
quality is mostly arrogance. From you I learned how
to fill my jeans – us butches can have it all! An old
lesson from one TV boy to another. Saturdays spent
kissing the old screen to suck you free. Old glass
curved and smooth like a Mother’s belly. Saliva
crackling on contact, saliva is a word that goes on
and on if you let it. Like George, like old, like organ,
like Mother. You died on Christmas Day. Don’t we
gays love an impossible reconciliation! I mean past
and present, I mean you and me.


Photograph © Roberto Sorin

K Patrick

K Patrick is a writer based in Glasgow. In 2021 they were shortlisted for the White Review Poetry Prize and Short Story Prize, and in 2020 were runner-up in the Ivan Juritz Prize and the Laura Kinsella Fellowship. Their debut novel, Mrs S, will be published by in summer 2023.

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