The Regeneration Game

The Regeneration Game

She spreads her legs

      and welcomes me back,

the sweep of the bay

      curvaceous and bruised,

stockinged with sand

      the tide has worn thin

like a briny lethario

      copping a feel;

her hoary rasp

      an ack-ack assault

on those oh-so Turner skies

      that presume to refine

a culture best served raw,

      like the ladders of kelp

that lace up the

      beach's bodice

and perfume the town

      with a scent that namechecks

all her former lovers,

      like an unwashed crotch

with its own tale to tell.


‘I never stopped loving you’,

      the spidery font

doubled in shadow:

      a sop to the place  

that never stopped to care

      for those it spat out

so why should it now?

      On Margate sands

I can connect many things,

      but this isn’t one:

a concrete bunker

      from deep outer space,

channelling cool-as-fuck vibes

      that bypass the town

(the one you so love)

      to connect with

hinterlands: the

      commuter-belt creep

that advances

      like limpets in

in the late autumn tide.


I roll into noon

      and a town that has

grown the thickest of skins,

      the tattooed tale of

the makeover queen;

      and there she sits

as I skid my way down

      hospitality row,

her laugh, like the

      weather-beaten steps

that terrace cheap passions

      (transacted pleasures

in Victorian gloom)

      is a map of a

territory on which

      few can stake a claim,

those newbies down the hill,

      who cover their ears,

as it scours at the sheen,

      lets the phlegm and

the flesh wash though.



      That’s the name of the game.




October 2012