This Comic Life

Flash Gordon died in this walled city.

His blood is the wet graffiti in the subway,

His bones are the dents in the fractured pavements.

That preacher by Smith’s had always said

Gordon’s dead (our saviour replaced).

Now whiplashed with rain we trudge for our Flash

down Northgate street toward the Cross,

singing polyphonic Nokia hymns while our kids

trade grief with kiss chase, cigarette relays

and tormenting the local tramp,

their games only ended by posters on the passing 82

Bank Holiday Sunday preview at Cineworld:

The resurrection in a deep red cape

and exposed undies.

 

Benjamin Jones