Full English with a large mug of tea. Please.
No exotic pulses or foreign grains,
No broadsheet hung on a wooden pole,
No toll-free gateway to the cloud,
No vinyl poetry on the toilet stall,
No ironic icons or Victoriana,
No coiffured beards or lazy drawl,
No mismatched china or urban chic,
No industrial scrap or stripped brick wall.
Just a full English with a serving of community. Please.
Life on dirty streets.
Streets of carelessly scattered stories.
Dropped packets that once wrapped precious living,
Yellowed and twisted stubs of grabbed moments,
Torn up world views,
dripping on leeched muted images.
Kicked and blown, ripping remnants
spotlit by stuttering neon,
transported by locomotive urgency
and casual drunken dance.
Butterfly bushes shooting out
from micro pockets of earth
congregating in gaps and wear.
Dust propelled by rain becoming home for colour blooming.
Corners and steps make sanctuary for the chased and the watching,
doorways spilling and spewing tales of everyday existence.
Life pushing deep,
finding space between the crowd.
Life on dirty streets.
PICTURA POESIS 