Canto XXII

The future of this burly East End town:
a clusterfuck of LCDs and glass
perched on top of businesses torn down

before their natural use by dates had passed.
Some endure in the postcode’s marginalia
among the run down boozers and long grass:

the traveller sites and street names still familiar,
all shadowed by its looming call to prayer,
consumerism’s Sagrada Familia.

Dear reader, I guess it’s hard for you to care
as I tap the screen of the smartphone I wield,
not haggling down the market, I’m right here,

failing to be leftfield in Westfield.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 09, 2012 @ 09:31:19

    You have got to be with your wife.
    No poet would enter Westfield of his own volition.

    Reply

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