Bathed in amber light,
You’re the sun in my sky,
A clammy hand I hold with great might,
As the years pass us by.
Pink cheeks, pink nights
Flora floods your room,
Drinking games and fights,
We wash down our gloom.
Strawberries and sugar,
Ice cream sandwiches and
Sushi roll dinners.
High on the cliffs and watching the sunset,
Laughing at nothing with you,
Watching people we’d forget,
Sleepy bus rides and tunes.
I hope you know,
I’d follow you through torrential rain at serpentine,
To a wonder-wall beach scene,
Through cold London weather,
To be there whenever.
To my best friend
a part of me in London-
I left it in my dingy block
on Deptford High Street.
Another part of me still
remains in St James Park,
somewhere in the flowers
and another somewhere in
the markets of Camden Town.
I don't think it'll ever leave.
two tickets to barcelona sants
I told you I missed my flight
my bus broke down halfway into London and tonight
i'm crashing on someone's boyfriend's couch
it's a quarter to three and all I hear is
arctic monkeys inside a funeral hall
where I wore black lace like an unburnt witch
and resurrection like a diamond ring
because you thought I'd die without you
but life is more than just a memory of you
Do I look bovver'd it's botched?
You wanted bespoke and that’s just what you got.
I’m chock-a-block with jobs,
so this the best of a very bad job.
It might look bog standard,
but remember it was already cack-‘anded,
so just shut your gob
with all your talk of you being robbed.
Look, your ladyship, you might well be miffed,
but I’m sure you can make do with a little skew-wiffed,
so ‘and over the readies and make it swift -
I’ll walk away and we’ll call it quits.
You know me and my rep round this manor,
if you don’t cough up I know a right tasty geezer
who will breeze over ‘ere and wrap each of his fingers
round a whole lot more than your French wind-ders.
- That’s a lot better, you’ve got a nice gaff
and I’m sure neither of us want all of the faff
that goes with ‘ard feelings and still ‘arder stares
through broken front wind-ders and costly repairs.
You know what I mean?
I was channeling Bob Hoskins for this one. I'm from south east London - and some of it rubbed off on me.
If I could,
I would call upon you
and tell you that the reasons why you are beautiful
As yellow meets black, turns night
We gaze in wonder at the city beneath the heath
As amber leaves branches, fall ever near
We crunch and repeat with our feet to the beat
As cracked hands cup coffee in shelter
We nod flick leftover shrapnel to them.
As wisened minds, ask us for guidance
We bravely seek to give the help they crave.
I would remind you that this is why life’s worth living.
I will conquer the world for you, my dear.
Sequel to London's Burning
I know what it's like watching the city burn
Laugh in tears when you’re simply hurt
You do not have the strength to get out of bed
It's ok as you can set the world alight instead
But darling trust me
The world is full of cowards
You have survived the worst
You just don’t even know it yet
Watch the city burn to the ground
Ashes to ashes, it all falls down
I’ll sit beside you whilst you howl
Sequel Hol Tight, London has just been published.
I don’t dwell on the whiskey burn
Or on lager-foamed lips
Rouge lipstick mark hints
Of a bruise to form and swell
You say you remember it well
Of me doe-eyed, above the glass
That captured a moment passed
Sleuth youths with young lungs
Huff up Villier’s smoke - so cool
Smirking, as we watch the girls
In vintage skirts, they coyly twirl
With kindling eyes and Gordon’s wine
In shy reply.
Echoes of the night before
Slowly fade in violet hours.
What’s so inviting under Arches
Now clatters back to the Strand,
Away from Embankment
And stolen midnight kisses.
So to remove a part of me
Is to remove a world of Pride.
A journey not yet run its course,
A journey not at its hearse
For if it is not alright
Then it is not yet the end.
Without due care I flick the end
Towards the river well
It roars and sighs,
By the ‘friar,
Past the Tower,
All through Rotherhithe.
It’s not the end, it’s not the end
For we go on and on
Just like the Thames.
Stood, fixed to the spot the man observed well into the darkness
as far as the eye could see. This was his view, as he nervously awaited his flight. The large windows showcased a cascade of gale and rain, like a Russian ballet, some kind of twisted beauty. Looking outwards towards the sheer magnitude of the storm, blankets of pelting rain gunned down onto the tarmac ground. The only lights were from the large runway floodlights, rocking back and fourth as the wind began to show no mercy. The windows take a battering, as his mind contemplates ever get off this rock.
"Mother nature cannot be tamed, nor can her wrath, it's better to let her be," he mutters.
The loud speaker blurts out "Departure gates have now opened."
And, in this moment his fixed gaze slowly detaches itself from the wrath, away from the demon. Away, from the dance.