If someone robbed me of a spare few quid
to go towards a fancy dinner spread
and offered me a spring roll, I’d take it.

So while you’ll never see me live or dead
down Stratford during that loathsome fortnight,
I might just watch it on my TV set

and hate it nonetheless. I paid for it.



Under the shade of an apple tree,
a small garden in Stratford, beer in hand
and daughter on my lap, we cannot see

the stadia she’ll pay for in the end.

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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