Simon Jenner

Number Six

The O2 Dome’s moonstone
rises global out of the beryl zenith
of Greenwich, shadowing their white buggies,
like the bubble pursuing the novice Prisoner,
in the convex sixties, when you took it all in.
Blue-lit, it’s playing futures back to you;

strokes complicity, soporific soft-
strobed spends. It’s defected out of its time;
twelve steps to the muesli belt colour
of developments, to eddy in a bureau
of crashes, jittery with brownfield takeovers,
where redbrick recedes like gums.

My cousin collects me for the last family home.
The clinic’s ceased. They’ll no longer
re-tread his alcoholics. Concrete
overcoat them, someone leaked. The earth’s
yawning for it as they close in here,
meaning nothing but they’ve squared

the sphere and how it comes for you
out of nightmare and a force of decades
when we were playing. It’s settled, found
its purpose, how to breathe with playboy
millionaires; take all the oxygen it can dream of.

Simon Jenner © 2008