poet. writer. imposter.
Brut concrete lines, aged
and crinkled, adding ersatz shingles
to a saved and solemn beach.
Beech gantries lead to stern signposts
warning of ripped seas warmed, given
unexpected life by outcast wattage.
I could swear I’m in Alamogordo
or maybe Yucca Flats after
the mannequins have burned.
I could swear Werner Herzog
has been here, rehearsing scenes
from Fitzcarraldo – Kinski’s eyes
wide and fuming, railing against
the hepatic, snow sick skies
of the Capital Wasteland.
I could swear the coach with fish-eye
windscreen, sleeping in a ramshackle
rickle of wood and steel and union flag,
could take me back to the 1950’s
for three shillings and sixpence
and a rousing hurrah for the Queen.