A disarray of Seagulls on the sun wounded rooftops behind Leaf Hall,
early on a Sunday morning.
The crack-clank-rattle of the milk float, chinking up Marine Road. Hungover Mods swaying on lampposts, benign besuited beggar men, drifting towards the damp cradle of the beach.
Frosted kisses burned into the back of the heart.
She never looked that beautiful, until now.
Darkened back room, sunflower curtains
and half a bottle of oakysmoke,
easy to remember,
inevitable she’ll forget.
These streets, eroded by memory, occasionally swept by the council. Blood money loose change, sluiced down the drains… ghost barmen still serving in the Burma Star Club…
A sweet tender suffocation, another cancer, another death. The afternoon haze collapses beneath the ash swirls, buffeted by the prevailing South-Westerly.
Humour me and pretend we are all free...
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