Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes trav
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;

On shallow straw, in shadeless gla
Huddled by empty bowls, they sleep
No dark, no dam, no earth, no gras
Mam, get us one of them to keep.
Living toys are something novel,

They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their t

Once I believed in you,
And then you came,
Unquestionably new, as fame
Had said you were. But that was l
You launched no argument,

Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting—place,
The woods we have found to walk?
Is it a mirage or miracle,

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty—three
(which was rather late for me) —
Between the end of the Chatterley
And the Beatles’ first LP.

Come To Sunny Prestatyn
Laughed the girl on the poster,
Kneeling up on the sand
In tautened white satin.
Behind her, a hunk of coast, a

The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter i
Till wind distresses tail and main
Then one crops grass, and moves ab
—The other seeming to look on—

I saw three ships go sailing by,
Over the sea, the lifting sea,
And the wind rose in the morning s
And one was rigged for a long jour
The first ship turned towards the

Next year we are to bring all the
For lack of money, and it is all r
Places they guarded, or kept order
We want the money for ourselves at
Instead of working. And this is a