To Home from Peckham
Twilight hangs over me like the hot breath of a giant. He's been
eating raw fish and damp cardboard again and languidly flicking his
sucked chicken bones down onto the street. Pink flickers span the sky
silently, stealthily reaching downwards, poised to administer electric
tickles. Two muddied foxes skulk across the park and twitch over to
the fence, looking back as if to make sure no-one has followed them.
There's only room for two in their musky haven, safe from the
streamers and claps above.


The sky sits thickly in its grey shroud. Temperamental bolts reveal
hidden limbs, grotesque and elegant the lightning boasts a shadow
puppet show. Its characters strobe into view, the scenes changing too
rapidly to follow. Structureless, the play bursts before me as the
tireless actors choreograph their fearsome dance. A rolling drum beat
echoes an accompaniment but the ritual summons no rain.


Blue red white stripy train, a ghost hand muddles inside me as if
trying to find my appendix. I squint through the neon shadowed ghost
of myself and into the dark to spy out familiar locations. An estate
winks at me, teasing me like an old accomplice who knows just where my
weaknesses lie. The train trundles on through the angrily impatient
rain dance.