Let’s go to Prestatyn, he said.
Kissing him, she;
‘I’m too young to learn Welsh.’

‘I’ve done all sorts of things
in London’s shrill nights.
But nothing as dark as Blackpool lights.’

Antique Wax Polish.
Old fashioned shine. Sharp sand grass.
Moon sliver.

Drink is the answer. And then a sofa.
I’ll sit and meditate.
You ignite the perfume.

‘What’s that?’ Incredulous.
‘O. What did you think?
This isn’t magic. It takes flesh.’

I can’t see the floor for teapots,
clothes and drugs. It’s been a week.
Original sin.

X is the square on the hypotenuse ,
keeps me awake all night,
the fluid solution.

She loves the Troggs, and at least twice.
The lit-up police car at the end of the night street
ticking over.