Croydons just a new build away
if it wasn't for the once East European office blocks fad
its now inviting human capital
to dwell in jolly new builds
and with the new Westfield proposed
most indigenous inhabitants will sell up.
They knocked down the Warehouse Theatre
to prove barbarians rule.
The Central library feels lobotomised
is it part privatised ?
Nothing lasts or stands for real
in Croydon
its a place with an itch
whatever dog it serves
is your guess.
hoardings of shops on the isle of ridiculousness
the feral pigeons pontificate
the leaking roof of the civic theatre stays
you've seen better days
you've blundered into desperation
bankrupted twice
and now you're turning the middle
of town into millionaires row
ill afforded by the minions
even our local Market is shrinking
an ebb tide of the municipality
Westfield as vexing as a fox in chase
The Central library feels lobotomised
is it part privatised?
Delicately smoke stacks rose in tendrils
From my lobotomised mind, tracks of steam
Channels which searched for surrendour
Teased unfamiliar air aflame, eventual glean
Chances which blind chases never uncovered
Now relaxed stance soul caresses confirm
Worth in the venture for connections recovered
Ratified tangible textures of trust returned
Sharply sprung tongue sprig of marjoram burst
Sends corresponding signals sweet salty
Cardboard dry enclosure summoned my thirst
Seasoned with fish fall apart white sultry
Flipped on my untrained pallette, ripe silk drips
Nourished throat thrums an unsung tempo
New reward captured bite butters impatient lips
Slippery flesh accosts a switched off depot
Aniseed's dark unrivalled flavour pinnacle
Nasal travelled spice kidnaps bland indecision
Abrupt acetic fingers, processing difficult
Held captive by capers strange punch derision
Ambience clink clanks cutlery's untimed tune
Calls faithful patronage who pay in blood
Inner soft lobsters promise flesh of high noon
Claw shards pave a love path summoned
20th September 2020
Trappings.
Flitting in,
and out,
of malls,
Scouring the aisles,
for more,
always for more,
walking,
undead,
through glittering halls.
Seeking out,
Luscious fabrics,
softest silk,
satin velvet,
crushed denim,
faux-fur,
trinkets and biscuits,
sleek gadgets,
that perfect shoe,
a must-have accessory,
cars, curtains, silver-ware,
gold time-pieces,
that stunning set of pearls,
as empty desire,
gleefully unfurls.
Piling onto,
heaving trolleys,
food,
and,
more food,
and yet more food,
to lighten the spirit,
to elevate the mood,
as countless starve,
a prime pot-roast,
of dead flesh,
we must carve.
Yet,
emptiness prevails,
as quaint notions,
of professed humility,
silently creep,
scurrying,
out the back,
while unquenchable need,
mutates, grows, pines,
it's insatiable hunger,
no longer able to feed.
The saga continues,
smiling faces,
lobotomised,
in the intoxicated haze,
with eyes shimmering,
through a toxic,
consumption-fueled,
trance-like glaze.
Trapped,
within the trappings,
of excess,
the undead,
waltz on,
oblivious,
to the torn consciences,
that have,
been so neatly,
so brutally,
shred.
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