Monday, 21 April 2014


Late into Wimbledon Fortnight.
A storm imminent, and with several strawberries trampled into the carpet
Arnold shuffles to the sofa, clutching Rizla paper and lighter.
He prises open the sticky window before the inevitable body-slump,
and catches the faint whiff of an incoming storm.
The gusset-pong of a damp sandy swimsuit
atop dead cockles
and draped in fluorescent slime,
on the rope handles of a salty basket.
Fruit juice, rotting fish and a nagging desire for sleep.
He uncurls his gnarled fingers, and clutches at his stick.

"There's the fucker!" He shouts from his cushion.
Through the nicotine-stained curtains, and out into the empty streets.

But no-one is listening.

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