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martin murray Jun 2016
We like to dance
Feet moving in a trance
Transition to a different stance
All of us jump and prance

We get in a groove
People’s rhythmic motion is smooth
The head banging is proof
Dancer’s enjoying the beat and *****

With Deejay YouTube on rotation
Music revives the good sensation
As boys and girls pair up to charleston
The vibe is lively in Camden

Everyone is revelling
In the style of crip walking
Zimmer frames towards the ceiling
As the old start break dancing
Oskar Erikson Apr 2016
As I walked down, on my way
back from Camden Town- some sights I saw.
The squabbles on the streets,
the dancers with two left feet-
I saw the smokers blow rings,
upon cobbled stones surrounded by courts-
like kings.

Then the rain came pelting,
yet the old lady kept belting.
Out her soft tune.
The cats came to listen,
but the rain kept on glistening
till shelter was found.
What a day to go missing-
even if the downpour's *******
on my way home from Camden Town.
Getting lost in the city is where I find the most interesting things.
We’re hand in hand and walking, down where the Camden canal runs away from us
and breaks faintly in spires, under the floating patches of, olive tree, street lamps.
She shivers on her cigarette, smoke watching, a furnace strong and foreign,
like the ******* of the incense in Rome, tracing flaming *** trails.
The bird living in my ribcage beats it’s great and terrible wings
again, and has another. I have her cold elbow fit my palm.
The pigeons obliviously sleep to the draw
of that burning London moon.
The draw I feel moving me.
down into the world
that acts as a cellar
to the one we know.
So much colder
than the heat
is, in her
~
IJ Keddie May 2015
I can smell ****, history and love
filling these vibrant streets at 3am.
Our caramel coated porcelain skin,
glows wildly under street lamps.

I’ve been hung, drawn and quartered,
by expectations and false notions of me,
but I’m past all of that, for now anyway,
as we haunt borrowed corridors.

We drink in our surroundings while we
shed our mundane bourgeois stresses,
and silent chrome giants watch us dance
around still horses to absent music.

— The End —