Friday, 23 January 2009

Poetry week: 10pm

The glow of gutter puddles.
The mirror sheen of a sky

where forty thousand lights
reflect forty thousand lit windows.

Grass grows whiskers through
pavement cracks. Cars pass

like they’re swishing their capes.
A parade-ranks of streetlights,

on monstrous steel stalks,
with angled Mars-red bulbs

makes you think of Wells:
they are absolutely fuck-

ing about to start plaiting together and
striding the streets wailing ullah,

frying the chip-shop’s broad-lit
glass front, the yeast-stupefied

pub, with a focused energy beam
exactly the colour of the nighttime.

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