Yesterday's Donuts by Sasha Newbury

        Cory Doctorow CC


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Yesterday’s Donuts

So far south
it feels like the end of the world,
discarded ideals and beer-battered aspirations
litter the shore line.
Yesterday’s donuts sunbathe with
tomorrow’s comedown – still warm and wet from penetration
and washed away with Glen’s

so far east
the sun barely reaches,
a town filled with aged people
haunted by ever-present problems
that linger at every shop door.
You shall not pass
without the guilt of privilege
weighing – gently ebbing

so far detached,
this isn’t home anymore,
not even the ghost of puberty past
or rosy mist of reminiscence
can fool me now

      -      but I’m tethered anyway,

to a town where yesterday’s newspaper
gets printed with regret
and fingered with greasy intent -
where the self-perpetuating cycle starts at 15
with a broken condom
on a dusty sofa
at a shit party
with your brother’s friend Dean –
a town where empty souls roam the streets
at the ripe age of 23.

They’re starved of purpose -
and dehydrated by the sea

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Sasha Newbury is a 24-year-old Copywriter living in London, originally from the not-so-sunny shores of Southend-on-Sea. She studied English Literature at Royal Holloway, University of London and despite desperately longing for - is still dogless.