HEAVENSLIGHT

On a swampy wasteland by the Eastern Road
strange furry large-eared gremlin type things
make a sacrifice to the gods of speed and metal,
a human sacrifice!
The victim none other than
the new tory MP for Pompey South
Flick Drummond.
By the time she is dragged
to the flames of the big fire
she has turned into a weasel,
a horrible feral screeching cacophony
accompanies her
on her last journey

Portsmouth sighs
the island sighs
a long heartfelt sigh
that whips up the tattered ghosts
of bombs falling
beers spilling.
Born again taxi-cabs
salute a pride of yellow and purple lions
who have hoisted the flag of fear
over Fratton's darkened streets .

The demons who danced around North End
burning the charity shops
and wrecking the ice-cream parlours,
now sit in the Mcdonalds
eating chips.
Strange emotions have taken hold of them
they sing wistful songs
of loneliness
and separation,
their black souls
expired somewhere around
where the old Odeon used to be

Mohammed, Jesus and Jehovah
wander around Gunwharf Quays
searching for bargains.
They are soon weighed down by heavy packages
containing
light and time and
space and discounted perfumes.
They stop off for a pint
at the old Customs House
only Jesus isn't satisfied with one pint
he overdoes it
causes a bit of a ruckus.
Underneath the framed Dicken's related prints
his two companions
manage to calm him down

Poetry inspired Pterodactyls
and philosophic birds of prey
hover over the Historic Dockyard
buzz about HMS Nelson,
soon they swoop,
releasing terrifying missiles packed with
misunderstanding and bewilderment
in the direction of the Mary Rose museum,
The Victory and HMS Warrior.
The blast is encouraging,
historic incongruencies
are paradoxically
part of the explosion.

The entire naval personnel
leave their personalities behind
and dissolve into eternity.
Nucleur submarines
become blops of rainbow lard.
Chinooks rise into the heavens
and copulate with the swirling pterodactyls
eagles, falcons and vultures.
Rotor blades in revolt
they resolve to give birth
to new ways of seeing
and believing

Portsmouth groans
the island of Portsmouth groans
why weep for a million
hearts broken
when yesterday is already upon us?
Phantom tourists pop up all over
Southsea
in search of soulless holidays
by the sea

In Buckland
beauty finally escapes
the chains of austerity.
She shatters everyone's preconceptions
with a moving speech about
her indifference to fate
and how fishing boats
are really clouds of tears.
Her well-chosen words
swim through the air
echoing across Copnor
like the foggy thoughts
of a drunken ferry.

Hilsea stares at Cosham
her eyes are huge pools
of molten lava.
She has already melted away
the lido and the local newspaper offices.
Where the bus station once stood
a host of apocalyptic
apprentices
devise new means of communication.
They occasionally stop to have a cup of tea
and wave at the future.

Portsmouth breathes
deep and heavy
blotting out the sleep of genies
with its withering
respiration.
The Ben Ainslie Camber development
has disappeared
in a puff of smoke.
First year Accountancy and Financial
Management students
pour out the University library.
In a state of fevered anxiety
they dance and sing to the divinities
hidden among the trees that line
Cambridge Road