#camden - Hello Poetry

Touring the cities of England and the UK Back of a transit van, rocking up to anywhere that paid The brothers Grimm and their trusty cohorts Bonehead on rhythm, McCarroll on drums, Guigsy up to all sorts That gig at the Wah Wah, King Tuts to be precise Glasgow you beauty, **** the next show up in Fife The man that found them, a mister Alan McGee A Britpop revolution, all great memories They came and most failed, that one gig on Top of The Pops Menswear to Mansun and an array of rank haircuts where the seagulls did flock We had the trendies in Camden all hanging around on their scooters with parka’s Noel or Liam and that fella from Echobelly, anything to be famous and get on the telly But then the times must end and it all turned a little sour A few trudged on with an album or two, the Manics to Cast and the lyrics from John Power Patsy and Liam had that cover on the front of Vanity Fair Draped in Britannia, divorce on the cards, strange how no-one now cares Good times they were without a worry in the world and a now gone era Euro 96, Southgate’s miss and those goals from Teddy and Shearer A time well remembered and days I’d love to see back If not only for the music but for the not caring and the unforeseen great craic Not to hate the now as times move on But a day in the past, served at seventeen and to claim you were the one Not to be asked I.D. and sneakily drink that Stella laughing at the bar, king of the blaggers, not to be served again by that same fella Before the phone and the apps, we used to meet face to face Girl at the bar, a bit of blarney and a home number to suit, always up for the chase Do you ring tomorrow and who’s going to answer Her mum might be alright, but her dad could be a ****** I couldn’t imagine doing it all again now Swipe left to say no or right to give it a go Seems inhuman to me not to spark up a chat But maybe that’s just me, stuck in past, I’m just old hat. JJB

0

Feb 2, 2018

Feb 2, 2018 at 10:02 AM UTC

john-bartholomew

Kid of the Nineties

Touring the cities of England and the UK Back of a transit van, rocking up to anywhere that paid The brothers Grimm and their trusty cohorts Bonehead on rhythm, McCarroll on drums, Guigsy up to all sorts That gig at the Wah Wah, King Tuts to be precise Glasgow you beauty, **** the next show up in Fife The man that found them, a mister Alan McGee A Britpop revolution, all great memories They came and most failed, that one gig on Top of The Pops Menswear to Mansun and an array of rank haircuts where the seagulls did flock We had the trendies in Camden all hanging around on their scooters with parka’s Noel or Liam and that fella from Echobelly, anything to be famous and get on the telly But then the times must end and it all turned a little sour A few trudged on with an album or two, the Manics to Cast and the lyrics from John Power Patsy and Liam had that cover on the front of Vanity Fair Draped in Britannia, divorce on the cards, strange how no-one now cares Good times they were without a worry in the world and a now gone era Euro 96, Southgate’s miss and those goals from Teddy and Shearer A time well remembered and days I’d love to see back If not only for the music but for the not caring and the unforeseen great craic Not to hate the now as times move on But a day in the past, served at seventeen and to claim you were the one Not to be asked I.D. and sneakily drink that Stella laughing at the bar, king of the blaggers, not to be served again by that same fella Before the phone and the apps, we used to meet face to face Girl at the bar, a bit of blarney and a home number to suit, always up for the chase Do you ring tomorrow and who’s going to answer Her mum might be alright, but her dad could be a ****** I couldn’t imagine doing it all again now Swipe left to say no or right to give it a go Seems inhuman to me not to spark up a chat But maybe that’s just me, stuck in past, I’m just old hat. JJB

33

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

0

Jun 11, 2016

Jun 11, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC

abstractionist

Dancing By Raul M Murray Friday 10 June 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

16

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.

0

Apr 20, 2016

Apr 20, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC

OskarA

Journey

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.

16

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 ~

0

Jan 3, 2016

Jan 3, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC

harry-randle-marsh

The Draw

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 ~

16

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.

0

May 9, 2015

May 9, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC

ij-keddie

3am, Camden Town

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.

12