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