The i360

The Brighton i360 has gone out of business.

It still stands there, the i360

or rather trying to stand

a thin, hesitant finger of ambition pointing at a God that, frankly,

long ago stopped taking Brighton’s calls.

And still the i360 stands there,

long and lean and lonely,

a monument to a stirring that never quite stirs.

A rising that never quite rises.

A promise swollen with potential

And you look at it, this tower, this promise, Iron filings of optimism gathering around a magnet of… civic neediness, a glinting coastal obelisk of municipal hope,

and you can almost hear it breathing,

trying, still trying

like a man who has spent the whole morning

psyching himself up for an event that simply

isn’t going to happen.

The i360 is tired.

The i360 has had enough.

The i360, like a weary ancient Brighton sugar daddy at 3am in a top floor seedy hotel room, with a gigolo who still believes in him, is giving it one last try

"h 

    huh

           huh

                 hu uh hh

h

      h

h

o o o O O ØØØ ŒŒ O MURIEL

pff

     fffffffff pffffffff fffffff

åaåh aa a

h 

    h 

         h

h?

mmm m m mh mmmmø mœ måååå

                              oh

                          o

oops

tch

huhhh

huh

             uh                                      sorry"

No.

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

Just a long, cold tower

staring out to sea,

waiting for a solution

that will never come.