The Girl From Ipanema In Brighton At Christmas (2004)
And you fall down as you gaze
Bored at the specatacle on offer,
The performances and wonders that are feeding life and themselves,
But not you, as you’re watching the pink dough of your eyelids,
And thinking of what with a smile wrapped in self?
As the boy speaks of folk and the blusterous wind rages,
The panes squeak and crack and you wonder how you’ll look
In your new clothes,
And whether they were liked to be given?
*
(crazy teenaged poem that I still remember by heart, perhaps then it has some worth)
