It was a gin house in Limehouse
a fine house
to dine in.
But long before then it was an ***** den
where the 'Gents' from the city
came to look at girls
who once,
were quite pretty
that was a long time ago.

Now it's an inn
and the in place to be.
Once where dragons roamed free in the heart of the East End
People now spend  a drink or two
allowing the theatre queue
to go down.

The town's not the same
all the music halls have closed
and the dreams that were posed on the pages of magazines
are just scenes I remember from childhood.
Maybe that's a good thing and perhaps it is not
Perhaps it's a sign of the times that we've got,
when we had ****** all
it was the music halls that enthralled us
that mixture of melody and comedy,
tragedy and look at me
harking back to those
'good old days'

It pays to recall the gin house down Limehouse
and the Ladies who knew nothing else
but the dragons who perched on the end of a pipe
or else I'd think it okay
to think in the old way.
Which is not the in place
to be.

Change here for the jubilee line
and I think not before time,
the docklands light on your right and
across the way why not take the
overground train today?

Fifteen ten and I'm back here again,
this is the time although it feels like the year,
there's a plague up there that plagues me
and it'll gel into medieval history
where no one will give a ***

******* it in and so why am I thin?

In the community where alterations can't trouble me
I walk with immunity among the dead
seeing eyes that once could see
lips that should kiss but never will
we
still look out on the Isis as if she
will save us from these ravages,

Winter is yet to come
and the weak shall inhabit
the sick try to grab it
the poor on the plot which
Is merely a cesspit
do a moonlight,
Shakespeare was right
it's a lot of to do
about nothing.

The journey begins as
most journeys do
waiting to see
who
runs for the train,

she's missed it again
for the third time this week.

We're filling up rapidly
they're looking at me
I'm looking at them
but
in silence.

Asian girl with purple hair
which I'm guessing isn't
her natural colour,

two Russians
Prussians ?
blue with the cold.

Woman on tip toes,
I imagine
pince-nez on the end
of her nose,
schoolmarm like.


It's Canning Town,
I could change here
for the Docklands Light,
one day I might
but not today.

On the way there is
the same as on the
way back

it's only the direction
that changes
and the time
and the weather
and
the Sun's position

lots of things change
I can see.

Sidetracked?
it's a knack
you either have it
or you want it.


she's wearing a
Roxy rucksack?
does it play music?


Too early to ramble on
too late for Tramadol
swallowing some Seconal
going back to sleep.



'

1.

In alleyways and docklands I wander
aimlessly with purpose as reels whir
forward, back, reverse, and repeat.

I walk endlessly for miles;
day to night and back again,
listening to a tape replete
with rhythms racking my mind.

2.

In coffee shops and
book shops and music
halls and taverns my
ears hear not the shrill
screeches and squeals of
my fellow man but

Analogue
sounds of an
instrumental played

By one in
some sort of
ethereal plane,

A place that
seems both
familiar and strange;

I shall search
for this place
the rest of my days.

3.

My hair, longer now, falls free
in front of my sunglasses
to ensure my vision is
doubly impaired.

My jacket whips in the storm,
as does my open striped shirt,
but my cravat holds back the
chill in the air.

I’ve felt far too much by now
to make some futile attempt
to hold back the wild winds or
compose myself.

4.

The melodies slow down.
Notes I don’t recognise.
The reels come to a stop;
the batteries have died.

The rhythms flee my mind.
At long last I’m released.
My walk’s now at its end;
must have something to eat.