Jumping into the deep end,
let them find me now shattering all illusions and intruding on the why and how and where am I? but here still thinking deep.
In sleep there is a limitless draft to fill this cup and oftentimes I overflow into another dreaming, if another dream can thus protrude from this my dreaming overload and if all roads lead to one, which one and where?
I care to take a coffee, cake and break this fast, this endless task, this is a time to sit and make new plans.
This man's no friend to man not beast nor forest tree and in his singularity, uniquely and this one and only never lonely in his own company
is me.

There's a woodpecker pecking in my head at night,
peck
pecking away,
I think he pecks
to peck away
the remnants of my
every yesterday.

No Values
just statues of accountants who could never learn to count
and mounted on the spikes,where business is displayed and laid out for the world to see in naked abject poverty
are chief executives and heads of lesser known departments who never meant to cook the books
but fell for fortune and her looks and took that chance to spread their wings
and now the wind that whistles sings
and passes through their empty eyes ,and flapping flesh drips off dry bones of arms that never meant to harm.

No charmed lives left in Holborn or in Chancery lane,where solicitors were in on the game of taking risks
and risks they took
another spike and one more hook for the fallen wig,who still seems regal but not as big as what he thought legal.

They bought but never owned the sky or stole it from the smaller fry who swam around the edges and the shadows in society
and we,
the ripped off,stripped off,sing dirges to their loss but me,I couldn't give a toss
let them burn and turn slowly on the spit
we'll roast and toast them,
let them boast then of fancy women,fancy cars and fancy meals in fancy bars.
These czars have gone the way of old
where bold men.bad men always fold in two
and the wind blew tears that fell to splash on piles of once extorted cash and though accountants cannot count
judges learn to mount the steps and put their heads in hangman's ropes and any hopes they entertain of clemency go down the drain along with
any gains they ever made.

Those who laid beside the wide boys of this world and opened eyes into another where they couldn't even bother to see just who they hurt
have lost their shirts,ripped off their backs,attacked by those that they attacked and now the axe is on the other foot where once a boot was kicked into my ****.

so good luck you *****
I hope your bodies fall to bits
and you end up burning in the pits
alongside the others that have sinned
in the end
no one wins
the voodoo dolls of life are stuck with pins
and the devil grins and hums his tune.

and then just when it starts to bother me
it rises to hover above me and some voice that I hear deep inside of me says leave it and move far away.
There's a clarity in pearls of wisdom seldom heard in the trappings of stardom, but the message comes through loud and clearly when I hear the voice that sounds near by me.
If a thought that is nothing to mention grabs me and holds my attention
I am nothing I've got
I am nothing If not but a dreamer that's trapped by convention.

You know where you've been when there's nowhere to go because you've been there before,
in the doorway of no way there's no way to go and you know it,so you
sit in the shadow that's cast by your long face and that's the shadow you know very well.

Very well,
counting your blessings will not buy you a beer,it's not enough for some 'gear' and the good Lord does not always provide
but it's warm here inside,out of the wind and the cold makes you old and being brave is just a 'pup you were sold when you used to believe.
You can't believe anymore,
there's no room for faith when you're outside in a doorway and so God goes his own way and you go on yours,
it's always about doors,the opening and closing,the what if,suppose if I chose another place to sleep,just another sheep that's bleating it seems like I'm meeting the train wreck head on.
I know where I've been,what I've done,where I've run to and from and when I've hit life and,
gone now the roar of the crowd,no one can feel proud in the night,out of sight,in the doorway you just shrink and
eventually
go away.

Eye Shadow

Central line,
Standing, clinging on, shaking.
There, sitting oblivious to all,
A face in the crowded carriage.
Liverpool Street
Black eyeliner is painted neatly,
Bank,
A pale grey shade softens the right lid,
St Paul’s,
The left eye shaded,
Chancery Lane,
A darkened shade deftly applied,
Holborn,
A flick of mascara.
Perfect.
The doors open
And the world floods out.
The perfect mask remains.

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.


Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

(20 minute poetry)


Hands turning blue
Ice running through
my veins.

no longer the season of goodwill
and it will not be again and until
the Summer runs in
In its bare feet.

ruggedly sluggish in leaving a trail
down on the tube every day
without fail

Generally,
in matters of colour
blue is my favourite
but
on days like this
when the cold makes me miss
the hot summer sun
I could go for a tangerine
an aquamarine
an orange or lemon,

must put my gloves on.

The draft through the door rushes in and pushes cold air in my face
oh God
I have to get out
leave no trace
can't face another day
living this way.

Mercury freezes if mercury can and if mercury can then so can this man,
they'll end up chipping me out of an ice block.

Old Holborn
for a smoke
but it's the station
I'm sat in
no smoking allowed.

This is for those blind drunk old factory workers,
staring at their burly-early days gone by.

With a twist and shift of sand dry Old Holborn smoke
dragging the last drip drop slither of moisture from their crinkly-cut
red river mouth, whisky worn noses.

Stood basking in the try-so-hard sunlight of a watery greasy fork scented morning,
lent,
one denim arm,
against the fake sandstone slant of yet another high rise, glass front pub-restrau-cafe,
a catastrophic glimpse at the character death of the Northern English inner city.

The sweat snort stagger home of the old factory worker,
working 'like a turk',
to breath,
see,
walk,
and remain continent all at once,
and at all times forever more.

Lukewarm and stale when both down and in,
and up and out.
99pence per pint, 99pees per day.
The terrific scream of a living liver,
drowning its decay in discount Lonsdale but-but-but-it's just one more bitter.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye fu&*%ing Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding

(20 minute poetry)


Hoodies oh goodie I'm in for a treat,
I shall pull up a chair and put up my feet
the show is about to begin.

In the red corner is *****, he looks a bit ropey, wouldn't trust him with a dog on a lead.
And in the blue corner weighing in at some tonnage from Sandwich in Kent,
is bald headed Bob who looks a bit of a **** with his pink leotard trying hard not to be the **** that he is.

Showbiz Sally's getting really rather pally with my right leg, she'd beg to differ, but something's getting s... Wait.. Ha, a comb in my pocket and I nearly broke it or 'Brock it' as they say up Lancashire way.

St. Paul's just a stop on the way to the bank and Bob's just told Frank of his love.

And the crew is cast out at Holborn, I doubted they'd stay,
for more entertainment one needs the circle line,
I'm on my way.

(20 minute poetry)

They're either sleeping or they're dead
no heads stuck in iPhones today
no make up being made up on the Central line, take up a collection, let's hear it for the deadpan men.

Even at Mile End they'll come to a bad end but the East End was always like that,

stopping at Bethnal which sounds just like Bedlam especially if you've got a cold, well
it's green and I've seen it so time to roll on.

Liverpool Street
hot dogs
old meat
dont buy one
don't try one
I don't want to die
none of that krap for me,

the Bank
be Frank
it's a cesspit
a tank full of sharks,

hark
to St. Paul's
what big bells
what big halls
(Did I write halls?)
never mind
the ***** fall down in
chancery lane,
who plays tennis anyway in
the royal courts
where only justice is
served?

Holborn is
old and smells of Catholics and
tobacco,
the next stop wil be my stop if I stop off and step off this train
but I could go round again if this was the circle line
but it's the Central Line

Wednesday disappoints so many.

(20 minute poetry)


Barking!
mad?
No,
but I could be.

This is my journey
London East.
Into the West, an ending best left to the author.

I bought a ticket, wicked.
So I'm going back in time, travel for 1/9 ( that's in old money, real money when money weren't funny money)

Bethnal Green,
I've escaped from greener places,
tower blocks, take aways and sweet shops.

I lean towards Liverpool street where the ancient meet monuments which the City awaits.

Now to the bank, rank outsiders in the honesty stakes,
someone should put the brakes on them men.

Off to St Paul's a majesty of halls, Wren had some ***** putting a dome atop that.

Last stop before Holborn is Chancery lane, lawyers to blame and they're just criminals like all the rest.

Into the West,
an ending
best left
to
the author.

The charity survivor drinks a Hari Krishna coffee at the back of Holborn station where the windows of museums stare blankly out on Lincoln's inn fields and the carpenter who watches from the corner by the taxi rank judges no one by their clothing or the way they hold their plastic cups,

the survivors only see themselves in passing car rear windows and in the blinking lights of Chubb security alarms on blackened doorways,

to survive in the impossible is not to look too closely at the person standing next to you or anyone who's scratching and survival is the key to going on and getting somewhere and it doesn't matter anywhere's a good place to move on to

and you drink your Hari Krishna dunking Garibaldi in the coffee donated rather grandly by the ladies from the institute.

Closing time, a clip from time is posted on your forehead and the sandwich in your pocket will have to keep until much later, but anywhere's a good place if you're hungry to be grateful.

Fade into the figments lining your imagination and disappear into the gathering of your day.

I see them sleeping in the street,
down Holborn almost
everyone I meet
has a sleeping bag
inside another bag upon their back.

Knights who travel on the road and
Damsels in distress.

We stack them neatly and we tag,
the moment that the sleeping bag
is laid upon the ground and the bag
upon their back is another thing that
we attack.

Peace,
release and let them be,
they don't bother me if I don't
bother them
but it's time that we as men
should help and then
perhaps,
it won't bother me.

But do I really see them when I'm traveling on the central line?
do I really take the time to take a look?

The window cleaner logo man
reads a book and jammed up next to him is a lady looking very grim,
she's watching me watching him and he's unaware,
but probably in that zone cleaning windows and feeling right at home.

Lots of buns as well
Victorians must have
saved a fortune on hair gel.

Pearl earrings is not a singer
it's what young girl is
wearing
and not an oyster in sight.

People
there's such a large variety
and I only see what I
want to see
if only I could look a
little deeper.

Jarndyce gets off at
Chancery lane
his case comes up after
the crown
versus Abel or is it Cain?

I'm wandering in the inns
but it's time to get out.

Morning Holbein
or it might be
Holborn
I'm just
mooving on.

(20 minute poetry)

Eats a baguette for breakfast and gets crumbs all over her dress,
this underground journey impresses me less the more that I take it.

He's on a major journey through a mini iPad
which is more than I had at his age

there's a bald man turning the page of the Times, it must be the early edition, a bit late though because the  ticket inspectors get on at Bethnal Green and he's taken off

and the old girl with the persistent cough spluttering, spluttering, I gave up complaining at Liverpool street leaving the others to mutter under their breath about pine boxes and death.

Some will change here for the DLR which is an acronym, it's also a light railway but I couldn't bear the weight  of it, had to rest and sit a bit, getting on in years see.

It will **** me in the end and in the end we all go underground I'm just practising,
news just in
due to a fire alert at Holborn Station
London will be closed for today
hurrah
I think that's what the announcer said or maybe just wishful thinking going on in my head.

Nearly there
glad I had chance to share with you the tube with no view except for what you see which are
crumbs all over the floor.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye f**king Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known  even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only  made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust
  
& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye fu&*%ing Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding.

(20 minute poetry)


They tell me 'do or die',
but I think if it do it or try I will die so I'm staying away from the mind control men and then I can take things as things ought to be taken
with ice, slowly stirred and definitely not shaken.

This is the rule of thumb for the *** that I am and believe it or not, I find it easy being me, the slowly stirred kind of man.

Shaken is taking it too far, I don't need that kind of shaking and making this spin out is bringing me out in a rash.

Can you spare me some spare cash,
Can you tell me the time?
Is it Holborn we're at yet and does it all rhyme for you?

I do my best, but sometimes I find bends where there should be straights.
Sometimes the fates are kind and sometimes by using me they're amusing one another.

'Pull t'other one', the old man tells me 'it's got bells on'
Well, it's Christmas so I suppose that is right .

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 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 to the gushing 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 there inside 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 eastend 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 p'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 a 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 to the child support centre-



wishin she'd married a bloke with money



north africans in bright kaftans



saunter surreally in the full 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 f te rain



and the scene fades.

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.

METAMORPHOSES

My smile
floating

in my compact
mirror

as I get carried along
in a river of people

flowing down
High Holborn

stiletto-ing back to work
with the other temps

laughing gaily
amongst ourselves

looking forward to
a weekend’s Paintballing.

I add a little more
scarlet to my smile.

My smile
gazes back at me

almost in love
with itself.

I trap it
in its little prison

snap
it

shut.

Burdened by
my beauty

almost sick
to death of it.

What others would die for
I’d die to be without.

I shiver
in the sunlight

feeling un-really
real.

It’s not easy
being a myth

especially in these times
of disbelief.

I still recoil
in horror when people recall

that hoary old story
of how I was loved

...by a river.

Oh really Arethusa!

I gather up
my green hair

into a ponytail.

Oh those ****** Greeks
and the stories they tell!

Now I am a millennium
or two

...older

I remain still
as beautiful as ever.

Suddenly a voice
comes after me

his shadow
casting itself over me.

Oh ye Gods!

Surely not here…not now…not…again!

“Hey darlin’…why leave
why such a hurry? ”

Alpheus
that old river God

disguised as a cartoon
bowler-hatted-pinstriped-brolly-carrying English gent.

But the wrong vernacular
gave him away.

The river Yob
as he was known even back then.

I tried to pretend
I was mist on a mountain.

But he
wasn’t having any of it.

His voice
pursued me

his shadow
the shape of my terror.

Panic’d…perspiring
I turned into a stream

made a run
for it.

The English gent
dissolved as he

poured himself
into his true form.

I could feel his
strong undercurrent

how his waters
wanted to mingle with mine.

I started crying
which only made matters worse.

And yes…yes
he caught me of course

chased not longer chaste
filled with his lust

& it all happens
all over again.

Who’d be a nymph…eh?
Lusted after…turned into a tree or river.

It’s enough
to drive you nuts.

Ye ******* Gods
I hate being a myth!

It’s a curse
having to go through it

every time someone reads it.

It’s so…frustrating!

Tired now.
Ooops this is…my stop!

I shoved Hughes’s
OVID

back in
my rucksack

leapt off just
as the door closes.

There seemed to be some
commotion on the street

and **** and double ****
Holborn Underground

was closed
due to flooding