head in the sand
drunk on self love
yoga pants stretching over war torn lands
the beak of property developers rears its head
the most happening place in town to get your hand crafted eco friendly coffee
poured over fresh wax
motorbike engine in the distance a burr a whirr
leather reflected in the curve of gleaming stainless steel.
the pubs are full, the barmaid complains of back ache, her estranged husband, alcoholism.
on the last train home the carriages full of people you call strange- pockets full of pennies dirty cash to get on the lash dirty knees bent
an old man perching nearby down
on crack alley
the babies cry the kids are dirty the streets are dirty the men in suits propagate a new property-for rent- lets not squirm in the alley daddy.
kids arrested for bunking- the schools can’t handle it the services are stretched the summers are stretched and its been too long.
the heat is still melting the asphalt although it rains
the puddles are still reflecting the haze of too many long days
on this side of town the people are alive they’re living, everything falls silent around us- give your grandad a hug and dream of the rain, its a small world they’re saying
i used to work with his auntie debbie, used to go clubbing back in the day, the clock keeps beating on and time won’t stop for no one.
a couple click their fingers at the barmaid demanding quicker service.
the air is misty oily autumns coming they say.
the geezers the fellas the lads the ladies-couples in navy blue work jackets though they’ve never really had to work.
everything tired and sagging a bit grey.
us and them never felt quite so raw.
the lillies are flowering from the dirty dish water, the stagnant water rises, thousands of petals flood the streets, its all coming up roses.
the kids are in love, fire in their bellies, everyone sings together, an anthem to the moon, the sun rises over dirty mattresses- the wheels turn.
groups of women and men dressed to the nines living up the good times —sweat on the forehead belly full of beer swirling around looking for gear a joyous embrace in a pub toilet on the dance floor, karaoke till late, singing the greats arms around each other tears rolling down its coming home we’re gonna make it out alive i think i hope i hope.
i can’t not see it i can’t unsee it
men and women and children with no homes
the finest artisan bread loaves and flat whites on tap
the gooder stuff
giving children a fair chance
please do not stop
a scottish lass of 21- on the streets of london- the world spins all around her – can’t stop it just for a second- her face shrouded in shadows, she’s in the shadow of the city lights, big business, these big glass buildings reflecting nothing but windows into windows into windows- it never sleeps, the stocks, whatever, invest in it, get yourself on the property ladder buy yourself a brand new aeropress and talk about your rolex- your kid dines on smoked salmon and fois gras and she’s got no shoes and the forests burn
please love us equally big man in the sky
the night is nigh