Leaves chuck themselves onto tracks, flashers
in their airy clearings. A stack of mags with hot
chicks, the haunted caravan in Weeley, Essex-
haunted with Essex. My roving 10 year old mind

like a priest in a lady of wicker- a rubbish witch,
dropped off at dawn to the seafront toilets where the
mirrors are sheets of metal. Dark tearooms of fudge
and lingering death. The fracas of rain on a skylight

which cuts. Wore his t-shirt in bed for months,
breasts pressed flat in penance, the neck too
high, the way he called his sister slag. We burnt
the lanes, as fiery idols of corn that flickered

bright then slipped down cracks to London.
Mocking the plimsoll line, our cat-right reflex spin,
locked in hedgerows with glo-worms and peat,
slight openings and watchful glassy silence ftw

No comments: