Brighton is unfolding; teasing my senses and taking my money.
I am slowly exploring the city and the sea.
I find a youthful jukebox air
Dancing bears in pants
Close shaves with bus wing mirrors
Endless rubbles of discarded televisions and stereos,
Beyond repair through insistent rain and wind damage.
I spend my days now in a room
Strip lit and drafty,
Speaking casually to callers about the implications
Of a slack contingency plan in the face of their road-damaged dog.
For six pounds an hour.
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1 comment:
Are you unemployable at Inkfish, or unemployable at Telegen? Because that doesn't sound like the poetry of a nicotine-shaking Amex customer service advisor to me. Awelcome to Brighton.
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