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18. At The Grand Pavilion, Brighton How calm the dead in fancy dress. Not a look of unease, not a sign of distress. In The Lanes they loll with mysterious smiles: all the young bloods in their Regency duds beatified. Terrors twinkled away like froth on a last latte. But now the party’s over they seem relieved, as if life had been an interruption in some enormous dream. Dream easy, I say, to the serene faces, that become each day, I swear, more beautiful. 14
page 17
19. Cross Country Yes, this is England, its leas and leats, its lotteries, the barley lying flat behind the Turkish laundromat, and swifts’ black fire over razorwire. A military state through a kissing gate: such digital riches but no poets or witches. Just keep off the grass says Securitas. I come over all mardy in Chorlton-cum-Hardy, friendless, forlorn around Sittingbourne, leery in Leicester and cheesed off in Chester, so fazed out in Frome that I start to walk home. 15

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18. At The Grand Pavilion, Brighton

How calm the dead in fancy dress. Not a look of unease, not a sign of distress.

In The Lanes they loll with mysterious smiles: all the young bloods in their Regency duds beatified. Terrors twinkled away like froth on a last latte.

But now the party’s over they seem relieved, as if life had been an interruption in some enormous dream.

Dream easy, I say, to the serene faces, that become each day, I swear, more beautiful.

14

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