Blackpool - 5am
by Darren Swift
The sun rises over the Grand Hotel, warming the beach's shifting sands which ripple and swirl in early morning Irish born breezes. Promenade to the promenade where last nights fish and chip papers chase circles around spilt beer and vomit, occasionally attempting feverish copulations with dead kebabs. Seagulls spill from chimney stacks, their caw-caw cacophony resounds around and down to the tramway, silent save for the cleaners sweep-sweeping the lines; their solid swish-swishes hiding wishes of far off thoughts.
A lone drunk stumbles through the clink-clink of dawn-led milkmen, his unlaced shoes plod-plodding along imaginary lines that turn feet into yards and yards into miles. Beneath the pier the donkeys appear, bay-baying their return to carry carefree children on bent and bowed backs.
I walk the golden mile, sullied by seaside sojourners into a tarnished brassy mass of neon and flashing lights. Finally I reach the end, breathe in the seas salt tang, light a cigarette and wait for the day to start, leaning against the painted, tainted wall tap-tapping my feet to my own inner beat.
Posted on 04/24/2006
Copyright © 2022 Darren Swift
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Dave Fitzgerald on 08/16/06 at 11:58 PM|
Brilliant, Blackpool is a great British institution... Vegas my a**e
|Posted by Michelle Angelini on 09/24/06 at 05:31 AM|
The more I read this the more I fell in love with the images mingled with the sounds. Sounds like a place I'd like to see and photogaph. It's a sensory piece, alive with sights, sounds, smells, and touch - and thoughts.
|Posted by David Hill on 11/01/08 at 02:14 AM|
I like all of the details, which produce a realistic place, a place I would like to be, despite its imperfection. I like the repeating words, which read like-like a stutter.