Matter-of-fact pulchritude in umbilical exposition—no matter the degree of rotundity subsisting—flouts all fear
Shimmers self-flagrant on barstools—devouring Cornish pasties at full-throttle—whilst taking in the empty news
Of who’s to choose which views amuse? D’y’wanna hear some Blues - or d’you eschew my slow—slide Yazoos?
They laugh—causing a tremor to run the entire esplanade-girth of cup-cake waistbands—and I commence to play.
Surprisingly they tap their flip-flops—shake beachwear money-makers—enjoying British Blues Boom pensioner.
Slow slide—in Open A—and I ain’t rattling no frets—the thing is booming fit to bust—and no one’s heard the like
And I’m singing ‘If you see Kay, tell her t’hurry home – Well y’know ain’t seen Kay—lawd—not since she been gone.’
Think maybe I’ll play the Cadgwith pub one day. Or maybe I’ll just sit and stare at the sea in cheerful perplexity
Of what coulda-been-and-never-was – and what-came-into-being-that-never-was-planned: never thought about.
Basking-shark loiter in the far reaches of the out-going-tide as fishermen eye the horizon for signs-of-tomorrow.
The beach is peppered with imposing truncated-jeans bulging belt-loops all venally-vying for ultraviolet violation
In order that belly-button theatricals pronounce each-vowel-in-turn, circulating rhythms of trembling adipose poses
Navel display is the height of fashion this year – and who am I to object? It’s a great improvement of the last thing.
I stand astonished at vivacious audacity that’d usually shroud itself in yards of anxiety-ridden-corporeal-camouflage.
Falmouth High Street—in spite of jovial flow—boasts bellicose-billboard-evangelist railing against sins-of-the-flesh
Stone-feature-preacher shouts dictaphone-pepperoni chaperone-calling-cards – but no one knows he’s curt and vile,
On the sidewalk Sunday mornin’ lies a body oozing life, someone sneakin’ round the corner – is that preacher Mack the Knife?
Suky Tawdry, Jenny Diver, Polly Peachum, Lucy Brown, Oh the line forms on the right – now that Mack is back in town.
Falmouth High Street—in spite of Mack the preacher—rolls on into fiery-zenith of calamine-lotion-legs-and-arms.
In the Navy—man and boy—sling-back-foghorns, flick of an eyelid, catches rhinestone crypto-kleptomaniac stays
Maritime hippies in Naval bell-bottom uniform—from way back-in-the-day—whistle at the girls and make-the-grin
As if nothing in Jane Austen’s England had ever changed – apart from the sense of discretion required in sailors.
The pedestrianised High Street burgeons with: automotive manœuvres; weekend groovers; distressed pine louvers;
Everyone smiles but Mack the Preacher—secretly cursing his Crabalocker fishwife—boy she’d been naughty girl.
Cosmetic simian symmetry—callipygous glass of gin—Mozart’s mongrel weather-chart and Pearly Spencer’s pin.
The days of Pearly Spencer—Ah ha—his race is almost run; with the side-winder jesters along the long colonnade.
Baritone Beelzebub barometer—parking-zone cyclone—holy-roller circus-tent circumvents any need of repentance
For Zanzibar backgammon hazard-bombardiers—shooting star-fire basement galaxies—riding shotgun in the sky.
The amusement arcade goes on forever in mad-dog English weather—vain—just ready for sun-burn once again.