Brighton Immortal
by Jon Heath
three hours
driving
to Brighton
for cigarettes
on the seafront-
the giant
hotel faces
stretch
neon lit piers
over sleeping pebbles-
but we trudge
into the shadow
of a beaten
bohemia
to find a floor-
a tiny
Brighton bed-sit
where
my old friend
plays his song-
with a cold beer
to my lips
I remember
the years
and good old days-
then out
on the streets
swigging from the bottle
the seas breeze
is like a perfume-
smiling revellers
here
and there
queuing at the lip
of oblivion-
their fancy dress
and lip stick eyes
guarantee
dreams
on prescription-
through the maze
of streets
we pass
like blurred photographs
flicked into motion-
buying drinks
in bars
with loose ladies
hips buzzing
on the dancefloor-
then back out
under a new sky
we dance to the steel drum
of a rasta
begging for coins-
we waltz
like puppets
across his endless
concrete
ballroom-
down
to the beach
where orange fires
are scattered
glowing like fireflies-
voices from
the world
sharing stories
with mixed
translation-
and then I meet
a soft smile
so I give away
my stolen
flower-
and take
her hand
weaving
through traffic
under a red glow-
to the castle grounds
where a spotlight
dances
our shadows
with the stars-
and a jazzman
in homeless rags
plays
for us
un bacio-
then as the sun rises
I remember
the sweet romance
of holding
hands-
and that’s how
it all ends:
the tale
of Brighton
immortal-
till the morning
comes
heavy clouds
open up
like sleepy eyes-
we stagger out
blinking
cursing
still drunk
and hungry-
looking for
breakfast
past noon
in a small
potato café-
where
coffee fuelled
we write poetry
in tattered pads
for redemption-
that done
we drive home
with thunder
and rain,
feeling redeemed-
hopeful.