Oxford Street

I walked down the alleyways of London Early one edgy Friday evening. I am a touring, curious resident, mind you. The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and With the hushed melody of frazzled fog. I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured Heels and hills, and stumbled upon Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz And devoted heartbreaks. It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime. Autumn, hoar with age, and damp, Was about to swallow her pride and go away — And go the way of all flesh— Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves. Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar, A fattening roofless museum of couture That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall, Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern, Fogeys and hipsters, Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks, Redder than deer blood, And assembled pieces of mascara, So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks, Each selling much more than a fragile penny. I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then. I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses. Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits, The rush needless and lacking in manners. Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! ' Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels. On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac. I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution. Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs. The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey! Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers, He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand, His breath on torture, ‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? ' ‘Last, ' I mumbled.