A coastline, strung by						
(Larkin) ‘forgotten boredom,’ studded
with distant faux pas.                                                             London Bridge,	  			  
                                                                                                                                falling or nay,                         Wet meat-like
Though                                                                                      ’tis like a wedge,                     Simon Cowell
The snoring cliffs ask                                                             ’tis not?                                     falls from the
whether fun was ever the problem.                                                                           black grey sky
                                                                                                                                A bridge rules                        in the old man
                                                                                                                                                                    And      is snoring	
                                                                                                                                                                                  out
                                                                                                                                                                                  and overboard
The sky: optimistic as Martin Amis
            after his third wank for the day.
            All London tourists do is 
            hump bricks. Here a’ Dismaland, lad,
            they queue up for hours for some 
            disenchanted castle, petrol tankers
            made taffy, fake security hassles.
            Don’t fucking touch the graffiti, 
            it’s heritage listed. No spray cans, 
            but there’ll be Damon Albarn on Tuesday. 
            You know. He sang the shipping report. 

Get knotted.                                                                    retinue
Four quid’ll get you in have a look around                                            ensemble
There are no staircases:                                                      zoning
you can look down from anywhere.                                                       staff
Banksy is a spectre over Old Europe,                                           rounding up,
a gust of well-priced shadows muttering 
in the awning of the Tate, and this is his
Kingdom, Unreal City, this shrine to melting solids
                                                                                            It is now safe to Brexit your computer

            Love your neighbor. Talk is that the Arab
            refuses to exhibit near the Israeli, but Banksy
            patches it up. As Pussy Riot pussy riot,
            another Alf Garnett sunset yawns
            over a Damien Hirst beachball,
            yanking on the scrote for luck.
            Empire's splendour all rancid, like
            opening Tutankhamen's tomb, 
                      and finding nothing but jars of piss and nu-metal mixtapes
 
            After they pack up the old lido, cart away 
            the objets, the Burning Man thingo, after
            Exit Through The You-Know-What,
            the baths will be empty again, and after all
            an empty swimming pool is a way of saying                                  900 years of
            swim elsewhere. And they do. Far from                                          XBOX and Lucozade
            the village green TVs, betshop kids playing,
            they clog up the lovely postcard, travel dot com,
            they swim, wretched. Heaven knows, miserable. 
            That joke isn’t funny anymore. But Strangeways
                                                                                           here he comes
                                                                                                burning books, 
                                                                                                the collected Archer, as 	
            if to say, there is enough here: we can begin to dismiss.
            First against the wall nonsense. Whither sorting hat.
            The fish and chip shop owner says it was l o v e l y, 
            while it lasted. He’s exhausted, now, though.
            Too much business! Run off his feet.
            Finally, Every day was like Sunday.

                                                                        I press my nose into my jacket and report:
                                                                        How do I tell Ma’am that
                                                                        disappointment is expectation’s reward?
                                                                        How do you handle getting everything at once?
                                                                                                Except to reject what
                                                                                                comes next?
People are taking photos of a water cannon.
Diana allegory. A mother and child are to be 
dwarfed by a tsunami. Banksy is a succubus &
any wet September you choose, you’ll find
the centre cannot hold back your hair 
as you chunder on the pavement.  
BANG BANG, and not a shot fired.
            Listen
            I'm a million ages past you								
                                                learnt to expect so many. I was not born to expect so many. 

As the baths were locked up to their solitude,
      we took down the tents, the notion being we give 
            them to the refugees o’er in Cally. There’ll be a 
                        piece o’ Dismaland there. It’s fine though we tell em,
                                                you keep it

                        May the sun never set. 
                        Contiki softly worms thru tin air.
                        Some new light goes out on the harbour.
            Even the new P.J. harvey album sucks &

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