Have you ever looked into an old man’s eyes
as he ****** himself in his broken wheelchair,
quivering from the cold under a shop canopy
and all you have to offer him is some carrot soup?

That sheepish smile is the worst, when it’s time to leave.
You’ve given him an old beanie, maybe a cup of coffee with no sugar.
What do you say? See you soon? Have a nice evening?
You’re disabled and sleeping in your own ***** tonight.

Perhaps you've heard the ramblings of a mentally-ill stranger
shouting loud nothings at passers-by; incoherent, confused;
He's emaciated, with an empty coffee cup in his withered hands
carrying but a single 2 pence piece to his estate.

Some of these chaps even leave their sandwiches to go rotten.
See, if it’s rotten, you’ll get sick,
and then you can’t be ignored
because your ***** is making the pavement stink.

That mentally ill fellow, he sits outside Tesco’s every night,
sitting up against a lamppost laden with stickers:
“Smash the Patriarchy”;
“No country for white men”.

The Women’s March goes straight past his sleeping bag;
this example of human detritus means nothing to them
but for the smell it produces and the rats it attracts;
I imagine it'd put me off my macchiato too.

Maybe you deserve it; your eyes are blue and your skin is white;
GUILTY AS CHARGED in London Town.
You're out there in winter-time at 02:06
and I don't know if we'll meet again.

Sorry I couldn’t do more, my friends.

He died in a sleep, yesterday morning,
unnoticed, without a warning,
quiet, like people die.

Now he doesn't need their spare change,
he doesn't need their promises
to sort this problem out
before 2025.

He doesn't need you now, London,
like you never needed him,
he won't bother you anymore,
you won't hear him again saying Please.

He doesn't need you, Westminster,
death solved his problems, not you.

He passed away in his sleep,
he now lies in a warm bed, smiling,
and angels bring him hot food.

But, he wasn't the first and the last,
there's many more out there in the cold

and every death of a homeless
is a little death of our Free World.


The poem was written after learning about the death of a homeless man in the tunnel near Westminster tube station in London.

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.

"Somewhere", spoke the grey lips in the wall.
Somewhere before sunrise,
before the first bird crows to dawn
and the apathetic are yet to uncurl
the grit that gathers like dust
between the folds of shallow eyes.
"Somewhere". A derogatory term.
Their humanity bears no resemblance to us
as skin and bone the only price to pay
for "unpeople".
Cities made of paper,
soaked in a drought. Somewhere East.
Or maybe South? Somewhere far off relevant,
so alien to home, allotted just enough frames
for you to feel how fortuitous;
but not enough so the screams
swallow your evening meal and you swat the sound of flies
pouring through the static of your transient box.

Lying on the rare
Psychedelic river named
Thames, I wept for life.

My mother called last
Night. She said Thames messes with
You, causes cancer.

She suffered from renal
Failure, after doing the same.
That is why I wept.

The cool, brown water
Washed over me. It rinsed my mind.
It tames me from me.

Revelation strikes
My heart, maybe I should leave
And never look back.

The city never sleeps,
it's too busy wallowing
in broken dreams and
smiles as vacant as the buildings
that are too tall,
and too bright
to ever close.

Hidden in fabrics
                                                                            Concealed beneath a mask
Taking shelter in music
                                                                                 Letting the lyrics soothe
Calm the frenzy of thoughts
                                                                                   Ease the internal storm


- Jay M
November 18th, 2019