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Anton Snert May 2020
Early every morning
Swooping squawking birds
Leave their liquid calling cards
Before the street has stirred
Where people in their track suits
Drink to overload
And stagger to their rented rooms
Down Blackpool’s Crystal Road

Where the road sweeper doesn’t sweep
And no one comes to call
Except for black clad bailiffs
Who come to take it all
The druggies & the drinkers
Share the one abode
To take away the misery
Of life on Crystal Road

The seedy little B&B’s
Fight to rent their rooms
Sharing each other’s bathroom
Sharing each other’s gloom
Screaming kids and drunken louts
Your eardrums will explode
It’s a sure way into madness
When you stay on Crystal Road

The wind blows like a hurricane
The rain falls like a flood
Washing away the *****
The debris & the blood
The hens are ****** the stags are too
They’re all in party mode
Throwing up and having ***
In rooms on Crystal Road

A *******’s bar called ‘Paradise’
At one end of the street
Full of seedy little men
And women with no teeth
A food bank at the other
Feeds those with no abode
But even they refuse to stay
In a house on Crystal Road
Anna Jackson Feb 2019
Weary eyed shop workers curse the sight of dawn,
A drunken Hen stumbles and her tutu gets torn,
The smell of burning chip fat invades my nose,
‘Chips for breakfast?!’ I cry, chewing marshmallows,
I venture towards the tower feeling free as a bird,
When SPLAT on my shoe lands a seagull ****.
Rough with the smooth - that’s what this town’s all about,
I think as a man pulls his Jokebooks out,
‘It’s for charity!’ he lies. ‘I live here mate..’
‘Oh right, soz love, fancy a date?’’
I ignore the geezer and gaze out to the sea,
Wondering where the Lochness Monster might be..
Soaking up the sights as 2 drunks start to fight,
‘OI’ I shout, as a kid sets a bin alight.
Skaters jump like kangaroos on the bandstand,
As health freaks tut, running rapid on the sand.
Children charge like apes in supersensory mazes,
While parents eye arcades with terror on their faces,
Suddenly crisp packets dance in the air,
As the wind picks up and whips at my hair.
‘It’s hometime for me!’ A hailstone hits my eyeball,
And the blue sky runs behind some grey clouds of storm,
There’s not many places with 4 seasons in a day!
So don’t let the weather throw you into disarray.
‘Blackpool’ I say, ‘a town of stark contrast…’
As a horse driven carriage then a rat stroll past.
A town to make memories no matter how worn,
That time never erases as new ones get born.

Back in Bispham, where the prom’s a bit safer,
The oldies don’t buy 3 Hammers, just pies and papers,
I step off the number 11 bus and shout ‘Thanks!’
The bus driver grunts, takes his hand out his pants,
Then speeds down our beautiful, glistening prom,
Full of lights that probably shouldn’t still be on.

— The End —