"piccadilly" poems
Beautiful, tragical faces—
Ye that were whole, and are so sunken;
And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved,
That are so sodden and drunken,
Who hath forgotten you?
O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!
The crass, the coarse, the brazen,
God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do;
But oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,
Who hath forgotten you?
3.6k
It's London, all the time,
when at night I close my eyes,
it's when and where I get to roam and dwell,
in the city I know inside-out so well,
where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones,
teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones,
lend themselves into the misty English air,
of London's ancient, yet so modern flair,
of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box,
riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus,
evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack,
fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack;
then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham,
where native Cockney's and young mums with prams,
gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show;
but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow,
over the rolling raging river Thames of yore,
where ancient Roman armies marched to shore,
proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest,
of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests,
where lives and deaths would go and come,
yet The City despite all odds has lost and won,
in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take,
great London as their true hearth and home to stake,
and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days,
whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze;
and alas, London from my slumber dissipates,
to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake,
knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine:
in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time.
______
London:
http://beautyineverything.com/3366195864
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 7:31 PM UTC
i am crawling in or falling through a tunnel.
*********** the tunnel needs nodody
kennedy is gone, living in static
white static swirling upward
or burned in the carbon-mist
piccadilly green in the lights by the hills
apathy roars the heart asleep
in the tunnel, the circus summer green,
the icecream heart.
the desert.
crawl, nodody lights a cigarette asleep.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 7:59 AM UTC
I am waiting for a twenty two.
Two eleven's have past but they will not do
from Piccadilly to Putney
home in time for ham,cheese and chutney
and here it comes.
Humming along brum brum brum
get on the bus
swipe the card
not too hard
taking a seat take the weight of my feet
and in the air from up the stairs the smell of food
someone is chewing on chicken
******* on bones
the women in front are gabbling in phones
and the child behind cries
I've dropped my fries
then an old lady slips on these crispy fried chips
and the bus comes to a halt.
The driver jumps up
screaming this isn't my fault.
Not my day at all
just wanted to get home with no smell of chicken
no phones in my face
but now I'm stuck in the bus
face to face
with the realisation that Putney and ham with cheese and Chutney
is slipping away.
No
not my day at all.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
I can't speak for the others
I can only reflect on my own thoughts and the heat of discomfort.
I can't speak for the woman who wept beside her oversized suitcases on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow, I can only consider her tears and what they did to my own heartache.
I didn't speak, but I reached over after several minutes of communal silence and placed a tissue (clean and unused) on her lap. Before I was back in my seat, she had taken it and covered her face in her grief and the tears came again.
The grandmother across from me got up next and placed a red stripped mint on the woman's skirt.
The dad who stood in the doorway, dressed for the beach, followed, leaving an offering of a capri-sun.
The child in the pram looked up at his mother and she smiled encouragement to him, as he offered his Spider-Man, pressing it to the woman's hand
and as she unveiled her face and saw the offerings, she laughed, brief and wet, but with a smile that stayed. She hugged Spider-Man, nodded and then with a sensibility to a child's needs, handed it back with thanks.
After a moment she found my eyes, and mimed a request for a fresh tissue and then in the silence she settled for her journey as we all looked away, dutifully silent.
Oct 19, 2022
Oct 19, 2022 at 11:55 AM UTC
Blank look on a sea of faces
Trying hard to ignore the world
and don't look into their eyes
for you invade their minds
and look with hatred upon you
the transgressor of their thoughts
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
I ran back
down to Piccadilly Square
just to get a closer look
at that doll baby.
She rambled by so quickly in
striped red & white stockings,
her lemon yellow
draped her shoulders,
bouncing like springs,
like her gorgeous *******
& that sweet sexy-tune.
She had vibrant graffiti
sprayed on her arms,
wore come-do-me ruby stilettos
as she glided like a storm trooper
along the promenade.
Her blackened full lips puckered,
with slanted paparazzi shades,
leaving a wake of open-mouthed
wide-eyed gawkers speechless.
Man, she was tough,
a rare cool bird,
struttin' her pretty
hot stuff,
it left me breathless.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
you know, they say, prior to urbanisation, during the winter, people turned into rabbits because it was so bleak... but now winter in an urbanised system seems rather like a stare into a cold nearing ultra-violet light of the neon of adverts at piccadilly circus.
spring came yesterday, long awaited i guess,
head up my *** sort of speak,
warm rain, not icy in venture of sleet,
warm, while today a day of warm contentment,
an hour spent on a bench imagining how
it would be in Disneyland,
two squirrels in a chase, woodland pigeons
making ends meet, a menacing crow
flying by with his hidden harem
(i said it once, you never see crows
do the pigeon thing of eager mating in
front of you, i guess they do it in the dark),
a robin with its crucified heart of the orange-red
chest pout exploding,
a blackbird rustling in shuffles;
two beers in and i notice the disharmony of this spring
compared with previous springs - the magnolias haven't
really bloomed, the daffodils were already
here in november, and the pink and white spring
blossoms seem anorexic and dried out in terms of volume,
they're scarcely colouring the backdrop of
the uneventful blue of sky and green of the hills;
summer is oh so monochromatic,
the season that debases me into a laziness,
a woman's sunglasses and a hood to protect
me from sunstroke, just lazying on a bench
thinking of a place in the archive of humanity,
next to the anchovies, i hope... the weeping willow
with its furry caterpillar sprouts;
it's all there, if you're lazy enough to peer at it.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:27 AM UTC
Being in love
was like being ill
and that day
after Judy’d left
to go to Florence
for a week
you went to the big city
to take your mind off her
but she lingered there
wherever you went
every brunette
with long hair
was her
and when you sat
in the Royal Opera House
to watch a ballet
she was there
down in the front
at least it seemed so
until the girl looked around
and had a different
face and eyes
and sitting
in that coffee house
by Piccadilly Circus
you sensed her absence
and drank coffee
after coffee
the blues eating
at you
wanting her there
beside you
imagining maybe
she’d not gone off
after all and that
at any minute
she’d seek you out
by some kind of
lover’s radar
but she never showed
and no other girl passing
was her
and you thought
of the time
a few weeks back
when after she’d
gone off home
from work
you had taken
a single hair
from her white
work coat
and twisted it
between fingers
and kept it
between pages
of Solzhenitsyn’s
Gulag Archipelago
seeing it
and moving it
each time
you read more
of the labour camps
and death and snow
and tundra
and she off in Florence
with friends
and you left behind
depressed
and love blind.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 3:34 AM UTC
(Puh)
“The power to perceive something impossible persuades me. I must pick a place.” The Clairvoyant Gulch.
This person pounds the ground with persistence. A penchant to procreate perception. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Passing away into peach fuzz and polyandry. Pretty Polly plans to participate in the process. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Princess Penelope ****** on Polly. Paczki the predator penetrates the preposterous Polly.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President of the Polyandry Psychics proposes: let Polly go but only with the presentation.
The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyandry People peer and pry for what will Polly present. The poor prissy presents her ***** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
She placidly plucks the ***** to pay the People. But she then panics and pours pomegranate red over a *** The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The *** then becomes an urn so precious that the People pray. Polly feels penitent of her peccadillo. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President points to the urn. Paczki the predator places ingredients into the *** pig’s tail, pesto and plantar’s wart. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyanderthals round about and puke into the *** Polly prepares a peyote dish that will pause time. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The President and People consume the *** It tastes vile and profane, they puke again. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
The Polyantherhals turn around to find Polly unpresent. They **** and pant in confused anger. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
Polly is passing the time, possessing a power within the Earth’s core. Her polyethylene pants protect her from the core’s melting point. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the People, it was not practical for them to be presented such profane magic. Their perception of the universal paradigm had been inverted in perpetuum. The Clairvoyant Gulch.
As for the Polyanderthalic *** of ****** pomegranate juice, the President sold the item through Paypal to a polyandry professor living in Piccadilly. The People never practiced polyandry in perpetuum. Ever again.
~The Clairvoyant Gulch
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
_We burrow where they lie, our fallen brothers. Old sweats and fledgling crow bags, both. In death as in life, they have our back…and so we plough on into the abyss by the light of a caged phosphorus flare, hot metal spraying the midnight hour like some vengeful fay’s buckshot.
A human scaffold supports us for the distance of four miles. That’s Piccadilly to Hampstead; Circus to Heath. The length of a lifetime…of hundreds of lifetimes. In the winter when the rains come and the trenches run like a quartermaster’s latrine, the soil sloughs away to reveal the ossuary within. It is then that I, in my now customary delirium, imagine that I can reach out to shake their hand again._
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 3:11 PM UTC
I find my finger tracing silhouettes of strangers
As I tap my foot and stare outside the glass pane in front of me
Onto the street where passersby greet the crisp morning air
With knit scarves and hats and boisterous jackets and saddlebags at the hip,
Ready to ride into town and run out the sheriffs in charge of the show
On West End and Broadway.
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Flurries of snow greet the ground with thunderous applause
As I sip my brew, intertwining fingers with my mug like lovers
And tracing silhouettes of strangers standing at the corner
With my free hand.
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The silent footsteps remind me of the cars at Piccadilly Circus on the first snow of the season,
And how all rhyme and reason belong to silhouettes of strangers that walk past the storefronts and stoplights and billboards and Barclay's
Instead of the steady sound of tires screeching and stopping traffic
In this picturesque place.
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A winter's day in New York is a lot like a winter's day in London;
Silhouettes of strangers are outlined by the fingers of fresh-faced people sipping coffee in a corner café.
They tap their feet and wait for a silhouette to escape the bellowing silence of the snow and the roar of the barren roads.
All they want is to intertwine their fingers with another,
Instead of a lukewarm mug.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
Lydia walked back
from the baker's shop
through the Square
carrying in her thin hands
the loaf of white bread
and half a dozen bread rolls
the 1/- change
from her mother's money
in her green dress pocket
her arms feeling
the chill of the morning air
the greying sky
the pigeons in flight
and she sensing
her stomach rumble
and her big sister
had just crept home
after a night out
(doing what
Lydia didn't know)
and her mother calling her
a ***** whatever that was)
and her father sleeping off
his beer
his snores vibrated
around the flat
and as she approached
her front door
Benedict came over
his cowboy hat
pushed back
his 6 shooter gun
tucked into the belt
of his blue jeans
been to the shop?
he asked
she stopped and nodded
early bird
catching the worm?
he added
bread not worm
she said smiling
she liked it
when he spoke to her
made her feel
kind of wanted
as if she were
of some worth
she liked it
when his hazel eyes
lit up
at the sight of her
how's your mother?
he asked
ok
she said
Benedict stood
and studied her
taking in
her plain green dress
the grey ankle socks
the black plimsolls
her skinny arms
and frame
are you allowed out later?
he asked
should think so
she said
where are you going?
she asked
thought we could catch a bus
to the West End
she frowned
where's that?
he smiled
up West
he said
you know Piccadilly
and Leicester Square
and such
she clutched
the bag of rolls
and the loaf of bread
tightly to her chest
isn't that far away?
a mere bus ride
he said
she looked doubtful
haven't money
she said
no problem
he said
I've enough for both of us
she looked
at her front door
best go in
or Mum'll wonder
where I've got to
he nodded
she moved towards the door
then stopped
and turned to him
see what they say
she said
Ok he said
look forward
to seeing you
she looked at him
that look
in his hazel eyes
that smile lingering
on his lips
like some show girl
waiting to come
on stage and perform
can I have a drink of cola
when we're out?
she asked
sure
he said
maybe ice cream too
they do that
soft oozy kind
up West
he said
her eyes lit up
and she smiled
Ok
she said
and just as she entered
the front door
he blew her
a young boy kiss
from his palm
and then turned
and rode off
across the Square
on his invisible horse
the coal black one
without saddle of course.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
again, this thing about the cartesian res cogitans
(thinking thing), substance and extension...
i’m pretty sure the darwinistic expression
of early model does not suit this model,
my own version i wrote once, res vanus (empty thing)
fits the gig better - we who can now snuggle in duvets,
who housebound the wild boar,
who milk cows with technological octopi tentacles,
who switch hot dogs with popcorn in the dark,
who ice-skate at somerset house at christmas,
who take diamond bling and christmas tree bulb bling
to equal the same credit on plastic,
who with polystyrene foam beat nature
by showing nature it couldn’t digest it on whatever
level of insect and parasite,
well have all the luxuries now, and we found them
not so much from thinking but from emptiness,
there is more chance of the eureka in res vanus than
there is in res cogitans - it’s the spontaneity you see,
and less need to narrate: love, lost love, aching love , ex lovers.
what else is there? it’s the easier assumption to have
with the niche topic in relation to kant’s noumenon (thing in itself),
i don’t know why i want to mention this orientation
to further the explanation -
early man was defined by res vanus - the sensual overload,
the prime, being empty and forced into the heat and the cold
and the mystic tiger hunger -
and still as defined by res cogitans, we pause and feel empty,
not so much in terms of emotion, but in terms of thought,
however we no longer gather at the campfire,
few people crowd by a lightbulb to talk fables with a
memory of achilles ajax and hector...
we need neon rainbows to huddle -
whether that be by eros shooting the neons of piccadilly circus blind,
or by televisions or computers,
rarity a fire that crept into the ribcage and gave way to
a macaw song of cross-dimensional sophistication off mayan jungles.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
The stars are out
and you know the way
- Piccadilly, Rusholme,
Withington, Wythenshawe.
These are names that could
freeze your soul in blue
and maybe light a candle
in the dark if you could
only find a spark.
Every building is an open door,
every street an absent flower
that unknown gods collected
long ago when it was raining.
This is England - a promise.
I tell myself - there is a plan.
Just follow through,
be yourself, smile under
this weird constellation and
expect the unexpected;
what you want will happen,
it's just probability
and probability is
always on your side
when you are in Manchester.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 3:53 AM UTC
*Midnight insomniac gibberish ..
House as quiet as a church mouse ..
Cheap Wal-mart clock ticking like -
'Big Ben in London town .'
Two refrigerators and a basement freezer-
making more noise than Piccadilly Circus
Old brick houses and Oak flooring make
one heck of a ruckus !
If I ever went to England I'll be ****** if I'd
ever put up with this much hocus- pocus* !
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
London is a name fixed in the yellow of a post-it
Thinking of Thames pushes the gaze
Somewhere else
In my case to the left, upwards
Acting cool
It’s where I stretch my fingers, where I
Hang on to the linen
[Of memories]
London is my ear lobe that keeps bleeding
Cotton wool pressed by my fingers and
The smell of lime in this room
Tracks of piercings I have never seen
The trail of a scar for you to lick
Of London thinks
My hair that is much too long
London is “Tell me about London that you can’t explain”
And “no more queue to know about Jack?”
A worn out pendant that makes my teeth chatter
But I stand still, you say:
“To a spirit like yours”
Then London
Is squares too narrow
You and I walking, I kissing you
And “I can’t keep you inside here anymore”
And “Maybe I know why I’m so sad”
And “What is that you fear?”
I fear
Of wishing
So if I am London, you
Are Piccadilly and Soho glimpsed from a postcard
The blazing colors, grey prevailing
Rain varnishing the double-deckers
I, saying: “When I’m with you, snow is all around”
“Is it a bad thing?”
“No, it’s not”
And again London catches me sighing
I always hear doors closing
I still feel throats slashed
And “I feel my things are mute on the ground”
And you say: “How small can you be?”
As the doll
Of a doll
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
Summer days
Inconsistent in England
An old train from Piccadilly
To New Mills
Sweating up a steep hill
To a blistering barbecue
Bearing brownies
To share with older brothers
Spaced and complaisant
Sedated in the sunshine
Overlooking the opposing hills
With an ex copper in our coterie
So pleasantly surprised
By the sun and situation
But it's not summer anymore
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
Sir Nigel Gresley,
preaching like Wesley
approached Piccadilly
puffing like billy-o, but the
age of the steam loco
was drawing to a close.
And it always seems to be that way
tomorrow supersedes today
and the voice of yesterday
once so near,
calls now from far away
I hardly hear it
anymore.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
I borrowed another man's wife
just to see what it was like
she felt like an old sweater
I wish I had never met her
wearing someone else's clothes
but that's just how this story goes
a tale of twisted deceit
of two people caught in heat
stolen embers of a dying marriage
that relationship died in Paris
a bitter sweet honeymoon
they sealed their love in the catacombs.
Two wrongs don't make a right
yet still their passion did ignite
an unused match created a spark
on something new they would embark
but this relationship was doomed
from this maidens voyage
for jealousy did all but consume
because of one bad choice
let this be a warning I share
over a misguided affair
turning something blue
just to try something new.
I left her at Piccadilly station
waiting for a train
there's no way this relation
could ever happen again.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
In 1996 when the IRA blew up the Arndale
I was barely able to leave my house
After getting mugged the night before
Which left me with a major limp
For the next 18 months or so
And forced me to ring around friends
That I knew would normally be there
Praying they would be at home.
In 2007 I got led out of my works
Viva an underground tunnel
I hadn’t known about previously
After it was deemed unsafe outside
To walk around the corner as normal
When a hurricane dragged a bollard
Through the Chief Exectuive’s car
And other cars onto the next street.
In 2010 I ended up leading three women
I worked alongside at the Co-operative
To Manchester Piccadilly Train Station
Like James Bond mixed with the Pier Piper
Avoiding all of the bars laced with drunk fans
Just before Ranger’s Europa Cup final
At Manchester City’s Ethiad Stadium
Just before it exploded into chaos.
In 2011, I was getting drove back home
By a kindly Ambulance Crew
Hours after getting registered with Diabetes
When we drove into a gang of youths
And barely reversed out alive
Looting a shop I used to go in for
A sandwich nearly every morning
On the way into my work.
In 2017, I walked past
Manchester Victoria Train Station
About a half a hour before
A terrorist took the lives off
22 people including children
And left me barely able
To sleep for two days afterwards
Laid in complete shock.
Each tragedy or event
Staining emotions
No matter how close
I was to the action
Cherry-picking memories
Into frozen images
Across feelings
Stuck in time
Reprinting each day
Over and over
Into a compressed version
Of Groundhog Day
Shooting grief from my heart
No matter how close to the front I was
Or whispered in braille rain
Tapping in shadow like tears
Brining my eyes
Pushing my grief aside
And carrying on
Like so so many others.
(also blogged at http://onewriterandhispc.blogspot.co.uk/2017/06/from-1996-to-2017-emotional-history-off.html)
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
The sun's climbing up like the ivy
casting shadows that wander over the wall.
Beiderbecke
flows through the radio
exciting the blood in my veins
and
Shakespeare's quite near
with his, to be or not...,
Tolstoy's on the tallboy
warring with peace
flamin' bedroom's like
Piccadilly Circus.
Apr 12, 2022
Apr 12, 2022 at 11:41 PM UTC