Rain likely tonight.
A grey palette falling
on a spray-painted desert.
Tumbleweed tabloids
loitering in a vacant lot,
telling lurid tales to indifferent
fag ends and plastic-lid layabouts.
A soiled circus poster
clings desperately to the door
of a deserted dance hall.
Its fat-faced clowns staring
blankly at crowd of cloud-chasers,
and wondering what the hell
happened to Weary Willie.
Dark-kitchen couriers
dashing down back streets.
Hot-bag burgers
chilling in transit --
spicier than the neon nude
flickering on a rooftop
like a spent red giant.
Wooden forks mark the trail
to a kebab van on a cobbled road.
Hansel queues, while Gretel
gags on fumes of frying onions.
‘These bleedin’ chips are cold’,
shouts a half-pissed punter
bent on a spot of bovver.
Then it poured.
Like some uptown sommelier
serving rain-clean streets
to a bankrupt council,
the clowns in tears,
the wooden forks floating off,
and the way back lost.
fag ends and plastic-lid layabouts.
A soiled circus poster
clings desperately to the door
of a deserted dance hall.
Its fat-faced clowns staring
blankly at crowd of cloud-chasers,
and wondering what the hell
happened to Weary Willie.
Dark-kitchen couriers
dashing down back streets.
Hot-bag burgers
chilling in transit --
spicier than the neon nude
flickering on a rooftop
like a spent red giant.
Wooden forks mark the trail
to a kebab van on a cobbled road.
Hansel queues, while Gretel
gags on fumes of frying onions.
‘These bleedin’ chips are cold’,
shouts a half-pissed punter
bent on a spot of bovver.
Then it poured.
Like some uptown sommelier
serving rain-clean streets
to a bankrupt council,
the clowns in tears,
the wooden forks floating off,
and the way back lost.
John Walter Taylor
© All rights reserved
8 November 2026
