The bus driver is only doing his job-
he says i am out of my zone
come on mate- take a look at the rain-
i just want to get home
never mind- its not too far to walk
as this sudden shower comes steaming down
London Bus lookin' all shiny red n' new in the rain.
so i take cover and hudde on the pavement
and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt
, washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-
search and return gushing to the Thames
in drab doorway i see pregnant mother
with dripped make-up and cigarette-
a bloke runs past into the Tote-
theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol
The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-
pumpin out da reggae sound all round
an chillin' der inside an'snug
an outside da rain drippin down.
headless wooden mannequins in windows
indifferent and dead to the scene
model outdated displays
of yesteryears east end Fashion
The screech -grind -halt-
of braking trucks and cars
taxis and buses
and halt heave hum, go off and on
phrases like jazz
emitted from the traffic hissing
on the wet steam road
passing the plain low gates
and walls of modest east-end brick
Little pockets of Istanbul
vending exotic skewered tastes
empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-
sickly sweet old vegetable odours
curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes
- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,
karla, kassava and Jamaican mangoes
Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple Taters
an mumble she grumble onward, homeward
past the Asian butcher selling cows' feet
fifty nine pence for two
sad looking cadavers of chickens
comically -hung by their feet
boney, alien headless n sad
and blood spurted and smeared
and dried on broken ****** cardboard box-
so rich an odour of spice and death-
what words to use?
yams and hams and potted jams
shelves stacked with imported cans
grinding horror of the butchers blade
splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box
brown black plantain bananas-
fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-
kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-
Illegible torn bills and posters on posts
walls and naked wooden doors
of cracked paint peeling in the rain
Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins
scattered uprooted far-travelled communities
stirred in the stew of this eclectic London Crucible
shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-
an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing
twins in double pram and wishing-
she had married a bloke with money
Africans in bright kaftans
Saunter surreally in the cool, attitude of summer
somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters
seem more misplaced in this scene-
people with gaunt girocheque expressions
huddled in Pub over pints
awaiting the Worlds End
To my left number plates while you wait
keys cut school of motoring, special rates
then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain
and the scene fades.
Mark Hurlin Shelton London 1987.
