It’s too easy to just walk down the street without noticing anything, or anyone.


I stomp these streets,
chicken bones cracking beneath,
size ten
history writers,
soles smeared in discarded beast excrement.

Takeaway grease dances around my nasal concha
carried by the same flickering winds
that carry brittle autumnal leaves
from branch
Leaving them naked and lacking nourishment,
their red hues fading,
devastating the purity of
gum and cigarette butt stained pavements
with their natural shapes.

My scarf flails behind
as I stride past
the Tip Toe Wine Bar and Restaurant,
past the boys,
wanting to be men,
sat behind condensation soaked windows
having their fluffy beards shaved
of the despair of those
in the tower blocks and bungalows
charged with fury
at having no fuel for their bellies
or radiators.

I hold on to my woollen hat
as I begin to run,
lactic acid swallowing me up
as I stretch myself to
catch up with the sense of community
and friendship
that has escaped us.

We own this city,
and we let it fall to disrepair.

We must cup our rioted,
rotten streets
in our hands
and give security,
from money lenders
and milk snatchers,
while bonds are made
and lives come together to rebuild.


The image is an original picture, taken by me, of the first social housing built in Britain. It is near Brick Lane, London.


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