"shoreditch" poems
City
almost done now,
the fun somehow has left these streets,
but weary feet are tramping home, sick to death and weary to the bone.
Rtoseberry avenue
postcode EC1 and then
it's gone.
Clerkenwell green,
scene of many unpleasantries leaves me and on to St John's street and
more city feet.
Old street not paved with gold except for the elite and more weary feet tramping on.
It's the end of another day and the city always had its way with the few and the lucky ones escaped by bus,
not us,
we went hobo on the city street, tramps and dodgy people, feet so sore and where if when we look to see the Shoreditch box park know we are not far or free of Hackney and the night falls dark across me.
I do
I do
Said twice, but in my heart I knew it wasn't so.
I go because I must've been and seen it all before and though I know it's rotten to the core it draws me like a magnet and I am being trawled by some megaline or dragnet.
The streets beat me down and the pirates in this ***** town have stolen me away,
just another bedtime story written underneath the evening stars and just another ending of the day.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.
It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.
where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Born and bred into poverty to
end their days confined in the Marshalsea,
in debt for a penny
to the Aristocracy, who
with
Jeweled eyes were unable to see
the poor people
living in poverty.
With silver and gold, they paved streets so we're told
olde England with
riches
overflowed,
not that you'd know it amid the tanneries and
horse ****
but that's just the way
the thing goes.
Among the harlots and ****** who scoured the shores
of the river when the tide was in ebb, were
the living though dying,
the failures and those trying to survive and
Dickens picked stories from the dead eyes
of Shoreditch in the 'jago' where they go
and he went.
In The 'mansion house' the banquet goes on for
the sightless unseeing but I am already
fed up.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 3:35 AM UTC
"I've fallen in love,
And her philosophy is divine" he said.
"Her words, they cascade.
From her mouth- enchanting like surf on the sea.
Her views expressed with anguish and creativity."
I told him to run away.
"She's just well spoken, well versed".
But he only cursed me,
And his heart became hardened.
She had divided,
She had decided,
On his behalf.
He was a sacrifice, and she had to eat .
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
/ donald trump is here?!
on these splendid, splendid isles?!
really?
where was the past week?
good thing that i bought
that johnnie walker red label
especially for the occassion -
without actually knowing it was
to take place...
i guess you might call
watching protests on t.v.
a bit like:
going to an illegal rave
party in an abandoned
industrial building
somewhere in
dagenham, or shoreditch,
or 'ackney...
britain is not getting what it already
wants -
i can understand blatant
flattery, and airs, monsieur,
monsieur bleu, rouge et blanc...
the one time that britain looks...
bedazzled?!
frizzy haired...
the sort of comic sketch
of a **** scene where the man wakes
up having sobbed himself
to sleep, in a disney cartoonish
way expressing frightened awe
and the words:
[what] the **** just happened?
'ave a tongue for a **** mate.
- honest to god though:
where have i been for the past week?!
i've paid attention to the football -
croissants, or, chequers?!
hmm...
oi! two face, what's
your gamblers' pundit?
- let the slavic sub-plot
'ave it,
if goran (ivanišević)
could do it, this ******* litter can do it,
given they reached the semi-finals
in 1998...
and believe me:
some people...
*are really jealous of the chessboard
representation on fabric, shh...*
or at least that's what i whispered
into the ear of lucifer,
hermitage's secondary
(only to achilles)
schwarz, mouse-catcher;
and if i'm wrong -
then i'm wrong:
but since i don't actually gamble using
money...
i tap into the emotional
excitment of gambling -
within the confines of expectation
of being right...
somehow, gambling,
but where what i bet with is... zeit...
and grooving to boris brejcha,
tantra of a DJ set...
**** me via my ears
and call me Sally...
nod nod nod...
(ten minutes later):
nod nod nod...
(15 minutes later):
nod nod nod (with an added
drumkit imitation of the whole
body starting to form a scary shadow
of a man sitting down
before a blank pixel screen
seeing letters and words appear
like a god might
see stars, and constellations appear
in the dark, dark: voooooooooo
'oid)
which is no proof that i made
a hiccup. /
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
"I've fallen in love,
And she's so beautiful I could die", he said.
"Her hair, it flows.
As much as a pixie cut can flow.
Her eyes, they glow.
As much as the gates of heaven can."
I told him to look away.
"Love is a child's game. Don't be a fool".
But he was a ****** fool,
And his heart was set upon her.
Finding,
Dining her.
After all,
She was a delicacy, and he had to eat.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
To state what seems true
it's about the ratings
don't you
agree.
We shall gather up plaudits to Lord around Shoreditch and Hackney to Bow and watch as the ratings go up.
We shall sup on our tea somewhere down in Lea Green,which is South of the Thames, or as the crow flies about two beats from Lewisham,these are names that I know,places I've seen when I've been down on my uppers and up on the downers,where stories to tell are retold by the fires that burn bright in hell,but I'm well,
It's the ratings we dream,the ratings that seem to be honey,making money more money and funny how sweet it becomes,number like runs on a wheel,spinning the new deal,rating things real when they're not,like spot the ball when there's no ball to be found.
The sound of the ratings that comes through the grating grates on my ears,a whine,electronic,white noise and quietly erotic,turning me on,tuning me up,making me look good and I'm just a dwarf plant that grows in the wild wood.
Even better than this as the ratings reach up to **** on the sky,there is payment that's due from the ratings that you long to give.
Why,
I don't know how to live is a mystery to me,a case of rate it and see how it goes
and ratings are all about shows that we take,things that we break,hearts that we make full of joy.
To state what seems true
I am sated on ratings and fated to be
a number in someone's
dating directory.
Did I say dating?
I meant rating
almost the same
but not quite.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:14 AM UTC
We voyaged with contented vigour,
not a second glimpse to the blackened moon.
Bodies numb, fallen stiff to the chill
beneath dim urbanity -
only the warmth of us
thawing glacial palms.
Fractured hearts ruminate,
filling scars where voids once evident.
Further the night wandered,
I embark its goading path -
tantalised in speech
from such copper-buttoned eyes;
steeped with stories
of a past torn from its flesh
and dressed to resemble me.
Our ghosts confide,
beckoned forth in rich exchange;
the currency of gilded tongues.
Stitched as testament to brick fabric,
where apparitions tucked rest;
those musty Shoreditch steps.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 6:13 PM UTC
Let me do you justice with my words.
I'm forever tortured with the urge.
To glorify you with every letter.
To make you, in my mind,
Even better.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
As Friday’s sun descends
A manic grip takes hold of the city.
Shoreditch on Shabbat like
A holy land for revellers.
Here the city ignites, the senses
Are at once dulled and overworked
Suits pull suitcases. Weekend trips
Coincide with business meets
Filling hotel lobby bars
The Ace, card dealt on payments.
Shaven bleached heads
Sidestep less fortunates
Begging for more, more, more
As night turns to morning
And mourning the nighttime
Bodies dance through
As sun ascends - bleaching the eye
but beholden because it let’s us go.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
Never paid for the pitch
but
sold **** to the tourists
East
down in Shoreditch
and
later in Petticoat Lane
I sold **** again
made a bundle
then
trundled off home.
Life's getting hard for the
twopenny bard and
it's looking like rain
so
I'll sell **** again
on the fly.
By the by or by the way
whichever suits,
on Saturday
I'll be down at the bay
selling mussels to the
weaklings.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 3:01 AM UTC
Skin like golden dew
In the midst of a
Shoreditch summer.
Your lips like Milk & Honey,
Let me have a taste of that.
Transfixed with
The way you say my name
With that language
I haven’t heard
Before.
Breakfast in bed.
In the morning
Chet Baker,
Hit play.
And tell me
Soul of mine
How do you do
That thing where you draw
The Art of Happiness
In my mind
With those eyes?
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC