California by day,

Las Vegas by night,

with flat caps, deckchairs,

and other English sensibilities,

once dying, maybe still,

 

while trams rattle declaring

sealife promises,

to stargate pleasures,

to Cher and her 'life after love',

entwined with the pulse of a rollercoaster.

Sounds of Saturday football matches,

played hard on soft sand,

menace resting seagulls,

and score into warm Eastward winds.

 

Peggy's pantry with a Cyprian cook,

and a shaved head waiter,

'camp' as you like,

but it's that sort of thing these days.

 

Bourbon street cafe,

a sweet memory from childhood,

was my favourite place to look foreign,

with a stubble on my face, drinking

jazz coffee,

imagining those in love,

on their way through the tunnels,

in saturated gondolas,

wet with ice cream,

from the anarchistic whims of children.

Those misfits laugh their antics off with the odd ghost train screams,

from young adventurous ladies.

 

Golden mile and aching legs,

it's toy town all the same.