Brian Beamish


Out on the tiles, Victorian smiles, a horde of
Clucking, strutting stool-pigeons
Pecking at the glazed shop-fronts
And the glazed-lead faces of the jackboot cashiers
A Formica fuck and a cancerous look
Reading their prey like a how-to book.
Nearby a punk shop with all the spit and bile
Of a Trappist monk.
Moment long gone.
All the outré strands ironed out –
Make them a Sir and they’ll stop being surly
A knighthood woven short and curly.
Plenty in this polished vacuum tube
Clinical and clattering like a cocktail
Of nail polish and acid.
Sherpas required to trek this wasteland
Milksop corpses with smashed-glass eyes
Tossed in the jet-stream of azure skies.

Brian Beamish © 2007