Born in a high rise, low mind concrete prison.
Delivered gift wrapped to a predestined repetition.
Bars on doors, on windows and wrapped around my mouth.
The loudness of silence.
Unknown entities draped in faded British bulldogs holding pints and childhoods, one in each hand.
The family men gathered whetting their lips with hops, hurt and hate.
Loose Knuckles and loose lips both sink women, I mean ships.
Warm dead paving, a lifetime of chewed up, spat out offerings littering the estate like a Jackson Pollock altar.
Sacred violence.
The bikes piled up on the green, a can in the spokes, a flame, a bike missing, an R.I.P plaque on a wall.
The smell of BBQs, the feel of brick walls baked from sun and slander, the sound of beatings in the distance, the taste of stolen innocence.
Sirens and sadness - a Somers Town soundtrack, 10 blackjacks, a panda pop, and a boy who didn’t make it home. Another child who died alone.
Will I ever be happy here? Free? A story of redemption?
Escape.
Will I make it or just another obituary from the council estate.
City of illusion
Colourfully lit alleys, gaming joints
Millionaires, millionaires in waiting
Chattering, dining away
Divulging beautiful illumination
Of a paradise on earth
Devoid of stress and bottlenecks
Somewhere beneath the winning and dining
Lay the tempting blackjacks, wheels of fortune
And mesmerizing angels of death
Whose venoms are more deadly
Than those of a mamba.
Counting the cards is a difficult thing to do
when the dealers pull from an eight-deck shoe.
When deuces, treys, and fours leave the place,
there are good chances for a ten or an ace.
The wagers tend to be a little bit more.
It is anticipated there will be twenty-ones galore.
Cards in eight decks amount to four hundred sixteen.
Determining what comes next will not be too keen.
What is to stop the dealer from getting a ten and an ace?
That would not appear too nice in this place.
An uncommon occurrence it is not.
In fact, the dealers get blackjacks a lot.
Whenever croupiers win, it is not too funny.
How else do you think the house makes its money?
When I was a lass, we didn’t have much
Funny how we liked it though, just as such
We played in the street with a whip and top
In the school playground on a hopscotch we’d hop
Streets were quiet ‘cause there weren’t many cars
Falling off our bikes to leave a few more scars
Dandelion and burdock to drink with Sunday dinner
Yorkshire pudding first, that was always a winner
I remember when I did the hula hoop real good
I can’t do it anymore but really wish I could
Blackjacks, fruit salad, sweets and sherbet dips
Pear drops in our penny mix along with cherry lips
Love hearts, fruit gums and liquorice shoelaces
Sports days at school, the egg and spoon races
The three legged race and the sack race too
There were lots of sports we had to try and do
We had to behave ourselves when we were young
At school in the assemblies hymns were sung
Snowball fights and sledging we had in the snow
Where did all those lovely years really go
Then we grew up and things moved on
All those years as a child had now gone
I remember it so well but it was long ago
I wish I was a lass again, knowing what I know
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