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