Wrappers
wrappers in a landfill
slowly unscrunching chrysalises
80/20 air and plastic
chirruping waste in the haze
waking up
the meadow became a dump
the dream was unwrapped
and the packet bobs in the toilet bowl
Petticoat Lane (and the passers by)
7am Sunday clang. Clumsy gloved hands assembling clothing rails before dawn. Fluorescent £5. Reclaiming the street from the sockless Essex of a few hours before. We slept tight in a tight bed in a tight bedsit flat above it all. 60 degree white over the landlady’s purple. Groups half listen to the tales of a sadistic serial killer. It’s been long enough. I politely walk through them into the Sainsbury’s. Years before, I’d walked behind army surplus camo jackets and Dr. marten’s to the market. Every Sunday, I sought out the market seller who spoke with an electrolarynx. He’d try to defer to his Vietnamese wife, but she always just shrugged with indifference. I bought cameras and guitars, none of which worked. The next stall sold Lomo cameras. I couldn’t afford one, but I bought a Holga. The camera came with a roll of black tape to block out the light leakage onto the film. The market closed for redevelopment. Now there’s a Wagamama, if you were looking for one. We met o...
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