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Nathan Bradley Feb 2012
The rain roars like fire
  As rubble smoulders
And two nations take stock
Of one copper's blunder.

  This is my Tottenham -
  My home and my heart -
Where fried chicken and Spurs
Unite communities.

  A father was shot
  While holding a gun.
He'd injured a PC.
He'd tried, and failed, to run.

  But then we heard cops
  Say 'We can't comment
But we know he was mad,
Mental and unstable."

  With no evidence
  To back-up these claims
As long as he's guilty
He's also fair game

  To be slandered by
  Those who should serve us
But anger the public
Who met at the station

  To voice our concerns

  The Met ignored protests.
  A wall of silence
Hit our vocal worries
And led to the kettling

  Of innocent fears
  And beaten youngsters
Demanding answers and
Justice but getting none.

  So houses were raised
  And lives set aflame
With passion, emotion and
Righteous authority.

  Who can we blame for
  These acts of aggression?
Twitter? The young? Maybe
The poor disenfranchised?

         Blame our police,
  Our ignorant chiefs,
Our public school leaders
And populist news briefs.

  All we wanted was
  To speak to the boss
And Nero said, "*******!
I'll fiddle while you burn."
This poem was written during the riots in London in August last year while listening to a protester on the news. I was trying to get into the mind of this man who was so eloquent in displaying how events got out of control and yet only saw blame with the police. This is not condoning the view that the riots were cause by the police force nor is it condoning rioting.

Poems do not always have to be from the poet's viewpoint.
Stanislaw HHM Feb 2014
For a pack of reds
She let me take her to bed
We took a few puffs of marijuana
And she said she's again gonna

We emptied a few bottles of Jack Daniels
And starved to crave a snack

What can I say -
I'm a Tottenham guy
- A real life South Park

I said to her -
Now turn and show me that ***
So I can play it like a drum.
I was born in the streets
The streets
My home town Tottenham
The streets raised me.
It knew me by my name,
It taught me the life game.
How to score a goal
With a little ambition
And more action,
Just keep it on a down low.
It taught me the highs and lows
I may not have the best vocabulary
But when I speak , everyone focuses.
Tottenham taught me how to face my fears.
The streets gave me links
Introduce me to spoken word, poetry and love.
The community was my family
No bonding has ever felt so strong.
The streets spoke to me, reminding me "wherever you go,  don't forget where your from".
The streets spoke my language,  it understood me and taught me humbleness is everything.
Tottenham  is my home sweet home.
Ashley Chapman Nov 2017
High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
then Metroline moves past.
It's the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
shouts the slogan,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.

They're gone...
It calms
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes
of cars
two, three, four dozen pairs
over the asphalt road.

where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover's womb.  
No, no
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.

Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2017
Good on You (a love poem),
this one, is, good, on you.  

phrase uttered, measured, apace,
each comma,
a paused breath of:

admiration, enveloped by
a secret pleasure coating,
saucier prepared,
the base, the pleasured secret in this
mans minds eye unseen.

each comma,
precisely the carbon copy of the
comma curve of dark hair that
falls from a forehead down to the chin,
in a museum quality photograph,
as if it was intended to hold, contain,
your sly blunt moody,
and full plated whimsy,
when that half-smile poesy is in place.

good on you,
slow please,

did you think, I did not have, a special bottle,
a Grand Cru,
a pinot noir, in the reserve,
inside the locked cellar of me,
to be used to anoint mine own
English Duchess of Burgundy?

well and proper aged,
but unlabelled,
till you provided
the appelation, the domaine,
good, on, you.  

the bottle dusty, the feelings, not.
if we never meet, matters not,
the gentility, tous les bons mots,
good in you,
hid in in all of the
astounding incredible poems
I well-addicted need,
those archeological mounds of a life,
I excavate and well heed,
going from one to the next,
me, the bumbling bee,
pollenating, following the path of the
watermarked tracks of
the King's Cross,
alas, they do not offer a couchette,
from Terminal 4 to London Bridge

unlike a teenager
happy to confess,
I am even younger,
an old fool, a geezer,
in love with a museum quality smile,
as he totters down to the Tottenham Hale station,
to catch the blue colored line, to the station after Vauxhall)
(oh dear, what's it called again?)
walking 10 to 2, saying ta to all
who assist his
two hands on an old man's bent feet,
steering the wheelhouse heart through its tubes

this is an undedicated poem,
retuned and returned,
addressee unknown, yet I know
by the greening dew droplets decorating faces,
that come so easy,
not a one wrung out,
you know
the who's of the true ownership,
the clarification,
in the bread crumbs,
fully disclosed,
left by me,
but for me,
in order to retrace my steps,
to find the railing,
when the steady on need arises

some Tuesday next,
will disembark from a riverboat,
at the old Tate,
spending my afternoon,
staring at an imaginary museum quality photograph,
till the guard surly reminds the pesky Yank,
its past closing time,
the man who will not be moved,
for already he, past overcome,
so why be thinking on why leaving,
for he will only be back again tomorrow.

so different.

mine, simple declarative sentences,
typically matter of fact,
so **** presumptuous,
those ill mannered,
know it all Ameddicans.

yours, lace doilles,
in a pub, with Hilda and Bill,
drinking pale ale,
from a porcelain cup,
and I am laughing,

It is all,
Good on Us,
a, love, poem,
no kidding kid.
the object of my affection shall remain anonymous, in proper British poetic fashion
LJ Chaplin  Jan 2014
On the Tube
LJ Chaplin Jan 2014
I am the oxygen running
Through the veins of London,
I am weaving my way through
The crowds of people,
I feel the wind
Of the trains
Pulsating through the air,
Running its fingers through my hair
And over my body,
There metallic cries cascading through the tunnels,
Where will I go?
The Northern line to Tottenham Court Road?
The Central line to Liverpool Street station?
There is only one destination I yearn for,
Above the concrete,
The tiles and wires,
The pipelines and emptiness,
I want to be at home
With you again.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
anyone see the brain i put into the washing machine? i think they took it and hang it out to dry, although i still think it's in a pickle jar of jealous ***** juices, going round and round, getting a brainwashing treatment rather than the joke about the thief who didn't wear leather gloves and a tight ****** hat, who didn't pull out his nails or scrape off his fingerprints, or shave his eyebrows... i mean, hell, i'm not into brainwashing that much - the k.g.b. did the same sloppy job on litvinenko - **** me! all the neurologists in poland are mad, and an m.r.i. machine does not exist in that country! i must have been inside a rocky horror theme-park ride!

there's that famous connotation to pomp, ego tripping,
my my, what a grand psychoactive
drug this is, ever danced smacking your knees
as representation of drumming
with your eyes closed in
a club on the embankment of the river
thames? giggling away at
the chance of momentary blindness?
i'm not here to give a macho representation
of me, far from it,
later ******* in the alley:
every club or bar i went to always
played terrible music, and too loud,
so i stopped going,
too much lip-reading you see,
like with this nurse going to do a job
on the housing project at north harrow
tube station, breakfast stop-over
at the mcdonald's at tottenham court road,
dragging my father out from
the depths of depression after
a man who married my cousin undermined
his team and got kicked out of a
company that later went bankrupt:
indeed that cloud of flies entering my
ear like a rain of syringes, painful like hell,
no respect for the underprivileged in terms of
health, you look like you just had a brain
haemorrhage you get pampering like a panda,
you look strong enough in order to **** someone
they think you're a chizophrenic... nicely done...
nicely done n.h.s., i think i'll take my compensation
in pride and emotions rather than winning
the jackpot of the godforsaken thing that
alienates people: can't cook for themselves,
need restaurants, can't clean for themselves,
need cleaners... civilisation and the death of
intricate tribalism... foremost family...
mano a mano con mammon...
hey, i only asked for an m.r.i. scan, now
i'm split bilingually making one story force
and the other story true...
anyway, back to ego tripping,
ego tripping is indeed a drug, but it's a drug
where you can't coordinate thinking,
it's like a primeval expression of the cartesian maxim,
you just sit there, self-aware (being self-conscious
has negative connotations via sartre's keyhole /
voyeurism), you turn into an object,
for example a tree, you ego trip as the tree
and thoughts are replaced by seasons,
the wind, rain, insects, birds...
you can't identify with anything,
even if you're ego tripping and a theory of relativity
comes along, you can't attach yourself to it,
you're tripping after all...
it's just you and the chaos of thought, there's no
ordered linear method of thinking,
you're strapped to a unit that doesn't move
but is a spectator of other things moving,
attaching themselves, or detaching,
and it's not necessarily egotism, far from it,
it just mean an elevation of *cogito ergo sum
how to make a blunt knife after it has been sharpened?
i guess ram it into bones or stones a thousand times,
or at least make dinner 360 times during a year
cutting soft flesh of tomatoes and cucumbers...
in terms of elevation i mean you're drunk
and you're tripping on the lack of thought,
a lack of a thinking cohesion / spider-web (
indeed the tarantula is a beggar among smaller
spiders, it has no idea of architecture, it hasn't
evolved technically speaking, tarantula the
anti architect)... so you're still tripping, because you
have no vector in sight, you're a pinpoint now,
a volatile coordinate, whatever thought comes into
range you can't narrate it... let alone vocalise it...
you're entering a void (jeez, this almost sounds
like making a waistcoat clock dangle and perform
a pendulum before opening the gates into
the subconscious and inducing hypnosis...
the gates into the unconscious are done by falling
asleep)... and then you sit down and decipher
all those thoughts buzzing around you that you
can't proceed from... ego tripping is best served
with alcohol - and it's hardly related to pomp,
esp. if you can't vocalise it and attribute the dropped jaw
of a ****** addict to be a symbiotic reflection...
or at least a carousel; in summary, ego tripping
is the cartesian ego sum, and no ergo and certainly
no ego cogito... well the ergo is there,
if you start to write something, but only then
when you step off the carousel.
There are submarines in Tottenham
they're watching every woman,
man,and moving slowly
underground they make no sound but have no doubt
they're watching what you're all about.
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
Tamla Motown,
my soccer team Tottenham
for so many sweet memories,
my old girlfriend Stella ... I know
I should have Stella,
I know,

brown bears & the lowly centipede,
Charlie Chaplin, that old ****** son of a gun,
Laurel & Hardy, just because ...
Tarkovsky movies ... Toshiro Mifune,

anything with custard,
apple pie,
fresh bread,
Indian folks for the way they
shake their heads for yes,
Indian folks for their god
that charming Ganesh,

Sci-fi movies ... lots of them anyway,
children laughing,
children playing,
& thus playgrounds,

serious folks who pay attention,
Anarchists ... of course,
my old grannie for her
English food when it actually

birds, bees,
old Chinese folks up at dawn
to collect cans,
& my Facebook friends,
take care you all now.
Oh my yes!
(20 minute poetry)

Friday is a good day
a day to say goodbye day
to the week that went before.

no tears for me
happiness sets me free
Friday is a good day.

Even now when the tube train's full
I can feel the pull of

and I see the gleams of
weekend dreams in
my fellow passengers

We're all explorers on a trail
networked by rail

I fail to see a reason not to smile
and that goes in the file of things
I haven't seen.

Short of nuclear annihilation
there's nothing to do
get off this train
at Tottenham Court
which is a station and
not a court
not in Tottenham either.

the best thing
the birds tweet
some can't sing
I hear them

and it's a good day

— The End —