The London Verses No.5

 Quickly written today… hugely flawed etc. I’m not fishing for compliments, honest. Just enjoy.

   

The M25

A 20-mile grey necklace-

or noose-

Asphyxiating-

Enclosing the metropolis 

A quiet belt that can’t be cut loose?

   

Blandly anonymous suburbs scream

(Consuming as a vacuum for dreams) 

Stanmore on a Sunday-

Middle-class mercs-

And the bleak coda of Collingwood

or forgotten Finchley 

   

Hard shoulders- 

And cold shoulders-

Cadaver washed upon the South Bank

Kisses of thanks-

And hugs of grace

Draconian measures

Pepper spray-

and mace-

Empty office space –

on the Euston Road

and one Bedroom abodes –

in Wapping.

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The London Verses No.2

Is Anthropology anything more than mere, sterile euphemism for a wider iceberg of never ending fetishism and fascination for everything around us? Well, probably. I choose to disagree (quelle surprise).

The London Verses No.  2 

I recognise BPS doesn't feature in this poem however, I had to include it sometime.

The Beefeaters’ late

And someone’s preaching hate

On Speaker’s Corner

(His truth)

Hendon Ruth

As the Hearse pull away

As the armchair yellows and frays

Parking tickets and Private Police

                         In Pimlico  

(Though not alone)

Dystopia & Co.

Try as we might to righteously resist

An inexorable failure to cease and desist

 

Laughter in the face of fear

Oh, another adapted Lear

Disappears without a tear.

 

Paradise lost

Then found

On the Northern Line

Heading Southbound

 

Sliding doors

A desire for something more

Than toe-to-toe

Shoulder-to-shoulder

Something you wish you told her?

 

Do City cocks sleep alone?

 As Swarovski pendulums rock

(Forgotten failures in Enfield Lock)

In peppermint penthouses of present

 

The distant cacophony of cafes and bars

 Hexagonal headlights and shimmers of cars

And drones of manufactured ‘decay’

And of police sirens far away…

Move further away.

 

 

LONELY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STATION

“I would rather participate in Life than write a 100 stories” Thomas Mann

Lonely in the middle of the station

Sitting, waiting, watching, observing, yearning

Intensely private and privately intense 

Attempt to ignore a flicking flux of state 

As I get up and make my way to Platform 8

 

My static and solitary peregrinations

Cyclical deliberations

 

Looking and longing for destination that doesn’t exist 

And never will

 

Three-fold a thousand souls

Wildly eclectic 

Serenity in the hectic

 

Hungry for truth 

Yet an appetite for ignorance

Rumbles and persists.