Out of place.

Nothing

is ever

out of place

in Brighton:

a man

walks

down the road

wheeling

a wheelbarrow.

And?

What of it?

A man wears 

a t-shirt

which reads:

'ASBO Retards'.

He has a little girl.

And?

What of it?

Someone

wears 

sandals

and

rainbow

bell bottoms;

another

wears

all denim,

or all leather,

or all

indescript.

I walk around,

not feeling out of place,

but feeling

out of space - 

my own space;

adrift;

this space - closing in,

or closing down.

But it's not, really:

it's

just a case

of

new landlord:

it's all renewed,

all shuffled:

a new lick 

of paint:

same shit,

different government.

I enjoy my days

and wait for

the USA

to squash

another

innocent country.