The sun, today –
it leaks desperation,
Gunmetal droplets of perspiration
I take the bus – through Peckham.
Knickers lie flaccid
Like salted jellyfish – tentacle pink,
briny in £2 racks of rainbow.
Peckham Rye lane is tight
as damp and crammed as a coconut shell
afro combs and mobile phones in the white heat –
punctuated cornrows and seed beads,
cornflower scrunchies, liquorice weaves.
The delicate babies in KFC,
children, plaid-dressed children,
wailing, clutching drumsticks like weapons.
the pavement is a gruesome meat,
each person is a sturdy hairbrush bristle on its surface.
Angels gaze from the treetops
like William Blake