bus dreams


the seas were fake and made of plastic

Over the hill see the stars of the city red green yellow and a faraway peach coloured crescent of light glowing roman colonnade

 the comets bus window reflected lights

 Coast past handsome Georgian town houses like we’re entering the Mediterranean only not quite like they’re braced: against the weather, grey waves no gentle blue.

 huge halo dandelions of  streetlights rain-blurred

 Sudden bus smell something who knew you’d missed or would/could miss: musty, sweaty smell of someone once’s bed– gone.

misty on a runway in space.

the rattling road
the crumbling pen

A palace of light, signs where cassette lord reigns and fat man crossing road flaps his arms left right like an oversize duck attempting to take flight and stars approach and fade, a memorial, a memorial, a hall of strangers:
it is the City!

It is the city.

(peacehaven to brighon, last bus)


structures of the night

After celebrating the Jubilee (or something) on an East London rooftop, meeting the early morning sunrise and fooling around on walls and ledges pretending to be Jim Morrison, trying to impress the boys, eventually, late, I made it back to Brighton, which I barely recognised through the fog of rain and exhaustion. I love summer rain, though.


Structures of the night
foreign city light landscape
through the drizzle fog
train rushing through.

Rain is good. Once the
shock of it is overcome
gleaming darkly telephone wires
spreading out, like webs

Strange familiar country
The rainy night brings its own
scent of lavender, delight
trees wetly rustled through.