Forty flung horses,
all flogged in the street
and hitched outside cathedral grounds
the great gate from yon Nando’s
Café Nero—dog shit lane
where that bloke in stocks
spits tomato seeds on his boots
And where will we dally?
Where’s that place you said about
the old-keep’s inn, the resting spot
—closed down, fair maid, closed down!
For sick and vape juice, nightly swoon
For lost-his-wallet and sticker bands,
For foggy look-glass, painted clown!
to lume the man who even still
is hung from rope for favourite crimes
outside Maccys ‘cross the way
where gutter stubs and brainéd boyssss
fall merry in their quiet game
O where’s that place, that any-place
we set our caravan?
O where’s that place, that any-place
back where our lives began?
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