By the pier
But with no real money
So quite unable
To play the slot machines
Much then as it was
As a ten-year old
On Blackpool’s golden mile
Of penny arcades
Which in turn remind me
Of the girl who I asked to wait
at the South Shore pleasure beach
While I went back to Albert Road
Unfortunately the memory
Does not remember why I left
Or what was so god-damned important
That I needed to go and collect it
I am the I-click Marco Polo
Of this the open sea
I am the non-stop seagull
Confirming my territory
There is no end to my belligerence
Or my lack of dignity
Though I am thankful for the sparrow
Which appears to be on a par with me
A going nowhere Friday afternoon
Lost in that, the thoughtless haze
Of approaching rearrangements
Of that, the life as it once was known
In search of near calamity
Or for ceramics made in the rain
On the podium for past reality
With a look-out to the claim
Every place has its problems
Here it's the seagulls
The walkers with their dogs
And the irregular hours
Of the drug dealers
Everywhere on earth is blighted
With one annoyance or another
Here it is the broad beam shorts
For daughters and mothers
As they lean on the railings
Every town in every county
From the north to the south
Every hope quickly becomes regret
As sad words leave the mouth
To characterise the diminished accent
Gratitude
Towards pigeons
And Weatherspoon’s
Bask
In September sunshine
Between the clouds
To believe
Or to not believe
In the church of the church
Who meet in cinemas
Hotels, cafés
And your house if you let them
What else to do
But to sit up straight
Think of the last few lines
Before the tide goes out
Or the floodgates
Are put in place
How to be both
Happy and sad
Dark and light
Dull or bright
Fight or flight
How to be both
Here and there
Anywhere and everywhere
With moon and sun
With angst or fun
How to be both
First and last
Start and finish
Where or whereabouts
In or out of pocket
How to be both
Superficial yet insightful
Tormenting or peaceful
Surf god or seagull
Spaceship or rocket
