Scorsese's hugely underrated 'The Color of Money' is on BBC One right now. I'm reminded of when my friend Beril challenged me and Luke Heeley to write poems about the sleazy bit-part hustler Grady Seasons, who's on screen for a few minutes only but leaves a memorable smear. Our prize was dinner at Beril's. This is my poem, published in my book, Neptune Blue.
Grady Seasons
It’s grady season,
the night snakes into sheer bri-nylon,
static sparks from pits, and nipples
redden from the friction.
It’s grady season,
the day wriggles into tight tan slacks,
gets sweaty round the crotch,
makes a buckle of the Sun.
It’s grady season,
the rain slants down like pool cues
or the cues slant down like rain,
in any case
it’s grady season,
and wood bees pollinate
a million billiard orchids
with blue chalk dust
as the gods rack up
a diamond of misfortune
for you to cut your teeth upon
during grady season,
season of fists and sallow hopelessness,
close-fitting bosoms
round the ring-stained tables
and the cue tip-ripped-up-baize.
It’s grady season.
If you didn’t sink your nine-ball
as you breached your mother’s
birth wall you’re rolling
round the small towns,
the pool halls, the cheap highs,
the comedowns, the dives
of grady season,
the three score years and ten
of it before the axis tips you
in the ditch, life’s a bitch,
the balls roll funny for everyone, sonny.
It’s like a nightmare, isn’t it?
The halls decay, the halls decay and fall
and that’s not all, it’s grady season:
on the snap, go for broke, don’t choke.
The Color of Money on IMDb