Walking across

the corroded

car-park concrete

 

between the

Worthing Station

and the road

 

I come to the

peaked block

of low-rise flats

on the corner

 

which that pub

since demolished

once occupied

 

and remember

working there

employed by the dealer

in Es, speed and acid

who used to

manage the bar

 

and we were

having a lot

of sex, running around

 

the deserted

hotel corridors

above the pub

laughing and tripping

and playing games

 

and now

I’ve passed

there, walking

along a

row of shops

with lorries

to my left

grinding seriously

elsewhere

 

and in one of

the shop windows

a group

of marionettes

is set up, their

jointed

 

limbs lank

from strings

wide awake eyes

mouths grinning

as I pass

like the memory

of acid.