Self portrait as Blackpool

I am towering
tall enough to ride The Wild Mouse.
A cockle-hearted donkey named for a flower
that doesn’t grow in sand. My bridle
is so pretty, red with tin bells
but my sea is impossible
always out of reach
or crashing the promenade steps.
I am the last week of the lights
a tram that is really a rocket.
All invisible-dog-leads and fart-spray
a hen-party falling out of The Manchester
at 10.30 in the morning, any one
of my lines or four corners counts as a win. I am
just one more go mum.
No kiss-me-quick punchline.
I am seasonally quiet.
My currency is three or five
donuts to a pound. My bones are rock
with your name through it, rock
with my name through it. A Wurlitzer
plays from the pit of my ribs. I am standing
on a precipice of two pence pieces
waiting to drop.
I am calling House!



Abigail Flint is a heritage researcher based in South Yorkshire. Her poetry has appeared in Popshot Quarterly, The Ekphrastic Review, 192 Magazine, Route 57, Consilience, Ink Drinkers and About Larkin, along with project anthologies and websites. Twitter: @constantunusual