A Hobby Horse on Holiday


Cracked mirrors dribble tequila from hare-lips.


There’s a littoral landscape spreading inland;

 Space shifters building castles with sand.


Television is an unoccupied classroom:

 Families gather round for faggots in foil,

  But information is incompetent.


Between now and navigation

 Contours have dribbled,

  Memory has sprung a leak,

   Persuasion is antique.


Dividing leprosy and liver sausage

 Is a choked thrill on the sun-spotted savannah.

  The brass bust of a lonely man

    Gamely scribbles in his Mongolian diary

     What he gone done next week.


Bisecting the rhythm and the river

 Is a bridge over Old Father Time.

  Impala scamper on the plain;

   Papa looks at his watch.

     In Paris the arcades are full of glitz,

      And there’s a crater as big as the Blitz.


Place has no place in geography;

 Everywhere is only a footstep.

  In the queue for the black market,

    A promising claimer catches

     His foot in the stirrup pump.


Between the fly-spotted atlas

 And Sunbury-on-Thames

  Is the rugged slate of winter:

    A roof with no house.


The wireless is no piano,

 Though the news is black and white:

   Night o’clock shutters the sky.


There’s a bruised bitumen ribbon sneaking home

 Past roadside caravans on bricks braising hearts.


A ravine is no place for a wedding




Julian Isaacs
Illustration Nick Victor

This entry was posted on in homepage and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.