3 AM SWANSEA

Townhill,
Tattooed tortoise heaving howls
Hallowed by fire and the hooves
Of now quiet horses
If anything once grew here
It has been masticated and mixed into
The frost-slick surface
Disparate lights become
The foci of forgotten fog
As the girl turns on Lug’s wheel
Alone with those few
Inextinguishable stars
And the music of moss that weeps
Tears of ice taller than Thomas’ shadow

Sanding fields
To a polished prism
Imprisoning the promise
Of that which can be
Conceived
Cradled in the cranium of the bay
Leaves laurelling
Lost knowledge of mercurial selves
Shed in the chaff clinging to
Pebbledash that inscribes her fingertips
As she is offered a tenner
In exchange for a blow job
Beneath the discrete blinking
Of St. Helen’s inconstant light

The legality of a partially
Illuminated Constitution
Lengthens her ligaments in
The litigation of gullies and
The lost liturgies of Bishop’s
Palace hedged by homophones
And sequoias standing sentinel
To the Last Supper
Served from the skip behind
Sketty Road’s Spar
Singleton signals safe passage

Through its capillaries seeking the sea
the Ninth Wave entices
Erasure
In the embrasure of a lingering darkness
Sanctoidd sterilising Sin City

updated by @whyt-pugh: 11/24/19 06:16:51PM