A Sturdy Enough Place to Stand

Off with his holy head, said Joseph, turning from the balcony, you don't come west if you can help it.
The end of the line, James replied sadly.
Another puff of smoke: fiffs, and then:
Feast of St. John. The skeletal conclusion of tin, wise Joseph muttered, louder.
Pirran's wound all slagged over. Wheal Rose gone wilted.
Our tin of blood. Blood of your rock. Your land of dried blood. And Joseph looked down on the masses diffusing from below, spreading towards the bay.
Nice to see anyhow, a froggy smile croaked over the docks, always busy.
Admit emits. Omit merit.
True, they're hard to hate, James echoed over the rattling masts, give and take.
Trickle of blood through the nose of the wharfside. Gry Maritha groaning through the foamy scum. Past Porthcurno and the bones of Queen Charlotte. Thanks ants. Thants.
One does not wish to bite the hand that feeds.
A wince. Food from my hand. Give and take, “you've some small scab about the nose”. Scratched away. They'll feed us. Joseph looked down and saw that it was good. A flutter of ash from an alebrown finger. A bloom of nosey mist from the actor.
I heard of the body at Red River. Nasty business.
A man from up-country I'm told.
Dismissed. Too hot in the afternoon sun. I must find some shady spot. Hands shaken, burned brown and yellow from sun and smoke. A sad thing, burned hands, thought James, picking a long strand of baccy from his white lips. Softer, he thought, looking east. Away from the chatter of the rattling of the masts. White girls hands and a pan on the stove. Fresh as they come, she'd said, grain for bobbing bird heads. Passed breakfast looking at her hands. Down to scoop then chew, then sniff. Soft girly sniff and a “sorry” and, smiling, back to the eggs. Strange to eat egg on toast when you can see the birdies eating grain. A woman's thing, eggs. Like milk, no doubt. Not for me to question, eggs. Scrambled up with milk and bread.
-Did you burn yourself on the pan? He'd asked.
Little red pain on her fingers. A sad thing indeed. Some painkillers. Turning back west past Davy statue. Is it true he sucked gas from a green silk sack? Gas in a sack then shit on a statue. Not one for Emily's ears. She'd frown, no doubt. But that's our way, really. Pride of the Royal Society, perhaps. Theatres of sodium, the talk of the town. Colder by the statue, better not lean here. Marghas yow sun setting behind Lloyd's, it's Caesar's face dribbling down onto the flagstones. Stone blocking salt from sun. Nothing funny about that really. Left past the chemist. Lost of chemists for a small town, he thought. Sea sickness. Right. Good to smoke here, good but a fast wind and then smoky eye tears. Better keep walking but a good rubitty-dub of the eyes. Left Right Left. Old Paul made blind out fighting the Arabs. Proud thing, but sad. A few in the Turks.

Lend me ten pounds, I'll buy you a drink.
And mother wake me early in the morning.

Not too many, pints to fit pounds. “Lend us a pound” he's asked. A true piece of Penzance. Nicer to sit in the sun. A piece of real history here. Not so many here now, but pints must fit pounds. Not so good outloud.