Something of my current location.

Resort

If you believe that everything solid here is on its way out
you'll see this picture I took of decaying arches
as waves that rust bench-nails clean from wood.
Beyond the inky black, though, of seaweed
creeping down the walls; beyond the sea-fret sky
in rockpools long-since clean of crabs, the walls are distinctly
graffiti free. The green of the rocks is slippery, fast, and
the length of time I sat and watched the fizzing sea is weighted
with the penny slot-machines that tinkled in the manner
of a distant fairground ride. You see, even the Vitadome is grinning
as it is slowly picked apart, one facelift too far beyond collapse.