red heeled shoes

up London Road
i am a
rapturous emergency,
shouting
at trees
& bus stops
where old men in caps
hang
like crucifixes
over signs
marked for Ditchling Beacon.
and i step
in a puddle of
daylight,
passersby streaking
like Olympic medallists
up the grey lawns.
i am sleepwalking
up the pavement,
or
skating on shiny flat heels.
my head is
communion,
that last Sunday in
December,
i'm a bat
hidden in its own
stringy wings,
a destiny
---already
deflowered, a
nerve
--blooming in
every direction,
a poppy-
driven to
-------------;insanity
and suicide
-by the smell of opium,
--and withering--car horns

-- fucking windshields