SE15

PECKHAMIST

The sun, today -
it leaks desperation,
Gunmetal droplets of perspiration
Gather.
I take the bus - through Peckham.
Knickers lie flaccid
in Primark.
Like salted jellyfish - tentacle pink,
grandmother mauve
briny in £2 racks of rainbow.
Peckham Rye lane is tight
as damp and crammed as a coconut shell
afro combs and mobile phones in the white heat –
punctuated cornrows and seed beads,
cornflower scrunchies, licqourice weaves.
The delicate babies in KFC,
children, plaid-dressed children,
wailing, clutching drumsticks like weapons.
Underfoot
the pavement is a gruesome meat,
each person is a sturdy hairbrush bristle on its surface.
Angels gaze from the treetops
like William Blake
and radiate
comfort.

The Arboria Institute of Well Being.

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