with mushy peas

get lost in twisty lanes,
play eighteen holes of crazy golf,
stumble to the chunky pub
and inhale
the chunky chips,
the ozone,
the rock;

tip the pretty waitress, snap
the lean limbs, the
snarly glance, the
daubed walls, the
wheeling gulls;

dodge
their terrible excrement, step
over the comatose,
the well-worn baldies, and the
tender flesh in lo-rise board shorts,
wasted alike on unalike poisons,
getting twisted
at the groynes;

lost minds touch
azure sky:
every day the same
since that fire thing
happened.