Go walk the streets of dust city remains
where fragments of your rubble houses linger.
Feel the bleach injected in your veins
as you press the jutting steal against your fingers.

A glittering tornado tears aged bricks away
and new pristine white walls strike you down blind.
Where wooden skeletons of homes gave way,
now empty windows flash down the street side.

When your lungs are poisoned by the disinfectant breeze
and you kneel down to cough on grimy cracked concrete,
when the toxins take you and hands start to seize
lay your worn head down and feel your city’s fading heartbeat.

What kind of people spit on the condemned
and cover up the suffering with phony plastic gems?

Housing waning
Where do you expect me to go?
Stop selling me Harrow
(Not even if you talking Road).
Imma Grove gyal…!

I got my vibe spots and chill spots, my food stalls and book haunts.
We - SJC are not just a Safer Neighbours blight
Given half the obstacles - gentle gentry
maybe more of us would be standing free

I’ll take myself outta Grove when I’mmmm ready.
RBKC done turned up that pressure though.
Knocking down to wipe out
The enriching colour and spice that grew out of adversity
Permission to “celebrate” over the August bank holiday,
No amount of stop and searches g’on make me forget.
We belong here too.

So get to know and stop putting up my rent.

Escape from Planet Hipster
They're nostalgic for a time
When wearing the peace sign
was a revolutionary act;
Now propaganda of the deed
is free shows on ghetto borders
Craft IPAs, grandpa's clothing,
and dismissal above all.

Monroe Ave c. 2018, in my own dream land. K. Daniel's Revelation, cannot reverse what's starting to happen. Darker, more forlorn. No more bar and restaurant patrons, the streets are just a scattered herd of pestilence. No cars, the somnambules own the streets in silence. Honey dripping hipsters, years gone. ***** clothes, hair past their pearls. Asking for boy, asking for O.P.s, asking for girl, asking for crack, asking for methamphetamines. The only noise.

We lost the reclamation of the city our parents left. Escaping dead end cul-de-sacs of basement poverty, we no longer had to drive. Stacked with our friends in tenement commune. We delivered the body we consume in service, catering to a more privileged few. Only responsible for one when long work was done, I ensured my red blood's full of fun. We drank and inebriated with design when allowed more free time. But, darling, I think this town was already gentrified. We changed no thing.