shattered perspex

I’m pretty sure there’s no bus service that calls at the local supermarket, so I’m not sure why there is a bus shelter in middle of the car park. Perhaps it’s a trolley shed, though I don’t know why they’d need to be kept protected from the elements – especially as any that stay out after hours are most likely to be found wandering at the uttermost extremes of the car park, not tidily lodged for the night.

Whatever it is, though, bus shelter, trolley shed or something else entirely, where there are perspex walls, there is likely to be vandalism, so I was unsurprised to find one of the panels shattered when I was out on an early morning walk recently.

If it had been glass, of course, it would have broken in an entirely different way. More like a spider’s web, I think, rather than the little tiny crystal-like fragments of perspex.

view through shattered perspex

The obvious poem to accompany these photos is one that I’ve posted here on the blog several times already. Here it is again:

Towards a local flora

Kisses grow on the corner
of the village square; they germinate
amid red plastic stacking chairs
and scattered olive stones. Hard
against twelfth century church walls
the double-bodied blossoms stretch
and twine. Like gorse, they bloom
year round – in winter they are often found
in sheltered doorways or jammed
against the scratched perspex
of bus stops – but they flower best
in summer drought and darkness.
They have a tendency to fade
at sunrise.

I think that was written after observing the wreckage and debris the morning after village fiestas in Spain. The next piece is farther removed from my own experience, as it was based on an anecdote told on an internet forum where i was lurking years ago. The only justification for posting it here today is a tenuous connection with something being broken.

Lessons in love

Her mother warned her about lead poisoning
from pencils and ink poisoning from felt-tips
and ball-point pens, so when Nick Timothies
held her hand, turned it palm upwards, and drew


on her wrist during biology, she trembled
so she thought she’d die. She changed her watch
onto the other arm and hid the evidence
for three whole days. When her mother saw it,
she made her scrub the fading lines with TCP.

Next day, Nick dumped her.

Since then she’s learned that pencil leads
are made of graphite, you don’t get
ink poisoning from biros, and the chances are
you won’t die of a broken heart.

shattered perspex

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

2 thoughts on “broken”

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