Bricks • Mortar • Imagination • Words

The Texts

Weather Report

Sea Vista fluoresces like luminous eels;

someone painted this place cream

and never touched it again.

You can't get that colour anymore,

just cream, you say;

flakes detach from the facade

and join in the general descent.


The tint of the rain drops' perpetual concerto

misses, by about none,

the lilac of the waltzes of the tea room.

So much liquid, is it all required?

Take cappuccino or lip gloss,

those suspensions of our age,

or the actual rain:

clouds (mauve semblance of what is)

accumulate as if instructed by old masters.

And when you think about it, El Greco's wrist

did live its life inches from the very threshold of creation:

the canvases like culture mediums,

spread with florets of grim hues and him

drawing out the grand designs into being

through the tip of the brush.


And as if to prove conclusively

that there is madness in Methodism,

the sign outside the mock-gothic hall says:

In the Midst of Life we are in Death

but you, you wear the ludicrous sea-side hats

of self-aggrandisement, as if the gust

that tossed the last one into the sea

was your own idea: not content

with wrapping yourself up

in love, only love, love,

you do no more than write an epigraph for us

on the back of the old hotel

with its seen better days

and panoramic lounge-bar:




Ha Ha Ha, you went.

Don't perpetrate mirth like that,

you spray-can El Greco,

I said, and I noticed

the soft flesh of your wrist

and wanted you again.

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Arts Council England
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