Tyre tracks turning circles who will save us now?  

 Is no more death at all costs ok; did you get that? 

 You have to get underneath now, under the skin of it to feel the heat. 

Then, if you get the chance, rip out its heart. 

Each house needs to burn out the toxic excess.

 The tower of games  resonates with wasted energy; tainted with a melancholy glow, a half light guiding 

us through slow motions. 

Fear is exhausting, paranoia and waste twist in the breeze, catch hold of everything.

 Every day an epic journey to find a new religion, 

uncover the true meaning of existence in some text or other. 

Books are pulled and flung open.

 

‘Inner city life, inner city pressure’,  

I knew a city but it wasn’t yours; it didn’t service the leisure of a new class of urban elite,

It was outside this remit, it was workaday it was Peter Tatchell and affordable eccentricity. It was

Free things to do it was liberation from class consciousness. Where can they dwell now, the misfits, the odd-bods the obsessives need a place to be. Hopeless pangs of nostalgia for that delicious twilight London past that dwells in sodium glows; the streets that echo with the ghosts of ‘playing-out’ now replaced with graphic design, coffee shops and overconfidence. These are the very last days of that world that most don’t notice, but we do. We notice everything in minute detail, we know where all the old phone boxes are, the fading shop facias of old family run firms, the ‘hello young man’ even though your turning 50 soon. The unselfconscious ungroomed lives that live day to day, no grand plan just getting by with a smile and a bit of laugh now and then.

 

 

Magpie old friend I hear your cackle, Green Parakeet outraged against the grey black ice; most visible in winter. Duck your heads to avoid the swing. Swill down coke and chips as the masked singers reveals themselves.  Cherish mystery like an anchoress crouched in silent prayer; confined in a box of love. Procuring themselves to God like delicious chocolates plucked from a silver plate by benign soft hands twisting it round up in the air, gone.  Rapture binds the heart swell mesmerised by incense and the echo of footsteps across the vestry. Give yourself away friend, scatter your hearts ashes into the wind. Crows mobbing Kestrel, Parakeet screech and Magpie cackles.

 

Crawled out from under the hedge with that roguish jumble sale smile. Here comes the Green father of mildew brother of moss. Faded suede and monkey boots Aladdin Sane hedgerow haunter; who once won a thousand quid on the pools, which was a lot in the early eighties. Green by name and green by nature curling fronds of ivy around weathered stumps summoning the paisley junk of a thousand wasted days wandering inside a cosmic whirlpool. Ask him about the time he befriended an escaped bear hitchhiking on acid. Characters from the past reach out to remind us of what once was real. Now all that remains is that grin Cheshire cat-like above a branch losing its leaves; cans crushed flat fags snubbed, those yellowing finger tips.