On the High Street

The lights sparkle like scattered jewels

or shards from a broken church window.

It’s too cold for snow, the weather-woman said:

still, better no snow than the famed wrong kind,

causing mayhem and madness on the Brighton Line.

Musak-ed carols on the high street

full of charity shops - but little charity,

John moves on at the policeman’s behest,

his hat full of pennies and his heart full of heavy.

‘Tis the season for such folly

and folderol and folding money

across bars and into grasping hands.

‘Tis the season to be jolly

-and jubilant and jealous.

‘Tis the season, “come on, Molly

and masturbate like madcap fuckers!”

- in doorways and alley-ed slums perhaps.

Troubled traders on the high street,

move on shouters, loons – and hopeless cases,

Jean looks on at the policeman’s truncheon,

his hand full of venom and his heart full of hatred

The loons scatter like unstrung pearls,

or swine from Gadarene herders.

It’s too late for love, the politician said.

Still, better no love than the tough kind,

leaving corpses and chaos at this Christmastide.