As I walked down Brighton Pier
Bathed in summer light
Munching on a candy floss
Squinting in the bright
I saw a fortune teller's sign
Lurking in the gloom
Signposting 'Madam Lucky Rose'
Dealing tarot in a room.
The gaudy gypsy painting
Lured this wanderer in
And as I ventured nearer
I caught the tang of gin.
"Hallo there" came a cracking voice
"Come in" I heard a shout
So I entered through a curtain made
To keep bluebottles out.
Twenty pounds she wanted,
To tell me of my fate,
I felt just like the Thane Macbeth,
But Jim not Banquo was my mate.
Hubble bubble, toil and trouble,
I expected her to say,
But she was busy with her visa machine,
And she wanted me to pay.
We placed our bums on old oil drums,
She'd covered in velour,
And she'd tacked a piece of curtain up,
To form a make shift door.
With trembling hands she took mine,
And looked into my eyes,
Her eyes were rimmed with charcoal grey,
And I expected fraud and lies.
She told me of my future,
She told me of my past,
She told me I'd get married and
That it would never last.
She draped around my shoulders
A cloak of purple hue,
And whispered of a new career as fortune tellers do,
"The curse is broken!" she exclaimed
I strained with all my will,
But she left me there that summer day,
And in Brighton I lurk still.

A B&B in Brighton
It’s only 30 quid
We turn up at reception,
We wonder why we did

The place is dark and dismal
The lobby stinks of death
The owner nearly knocks us out
With her stinking breath

We have to share a bathroom
With Deirdre & Stan
**** stains on the toilet seat
Skid marks in the pan

The room is small & pokey
There is a smell of damp
The TV is about the size
Of a 1st class postage stamp

The landlord smells of cigarettes
His wife smells of B.O.
The whole place smells of fry-ups
We just can’t wait to go

the rain's melting glass
moulding our views
and moving intentions
to rooms where it started

in grey skies and days
gripping tightly as tea melts between
afternoon darkness

the city at evening
turned pines into curtains
drifting on branches

and in sudden still we walked out between them
in tunnels so soft words can't escape we
shook them together
the snow freezing down
between coatings inside the stitched cotton
we're both waiting there as cars drive below

the rain's melting glass
and scatters through streets
and cracks in the frame
are beginning to show

I'm not scared of the sea,
and the sea
is not scared of me.

I love sea.
In my previous life
I must have been a sailor
or seagull,
or a seashell.

This life scares me,
but I'm not scared to die.
I know I will be a sailor
or a seagull,
or a seashell
in the afterlife.

I'm sitting
by the sea
and asking myself
who else I'd want to be
other than me.

I hear the waves
answering me:
There's no else
you would want to be.

I whisper the sea,
and the sea
whispers
me.

Seagulls are circling
above the sea.
Sea shells are sleeping,
being kissed by the wind.

The sea is standing high,
higher than me.

I like sea shells,
because they are not waiting
to be found.

They are fine on their own,
sleeping in the sand.
They don't need anything else
to smile.

The roar of the sea
and the whisper of the wind
is enough.

There is traffic
on the street below
our hotel window.

You are lying
on the bed
naked
and arms spread wide
in invitation.

The is no shade
on the one light
above the double bed
and the curtains
of shabby red
are drawn closed.

I undress slow
and uncertain.

I wonder what
your old man
must be thinking
you at some recital
of piano and violin
then to spend the night
with a friend.

Undressed
I walk to the bed
and climb in
and you draw the covers
over us
and we snuggle down.

The recital was lame
and the pianist
some old dear
had knotted knuckles.

You said nothing
about your old man
nor what he thought
or cared.

You arranged me
into position
and set me off.

There was laughter
from the street below
from drunken revellers
on their way home
or to another bar
or club.

Game set and won
we lay on our backs
hearing nearby
a gentle hum.