Bird of Ash
part two
Mohamed, was it like
walking through
a magicians red curtain
from one high rise to another,
in real time to a new height
the 18thfloor watching a hawk
ride west London thermals?
Mohamed-dear bird of ash-fly
back to your Uncle’s field
of pomegranate trees
to those that loved you
to those that dreamt,
a happier kind of life.
Winter Song One
Near the burnt out carpet warehouse
a queue grows bigger by the hour.
Someone in a blue boiler suit is in charge
of a shopping trolley packed with prosthetic arms,
one defiantly holding a manuscript
Poems found at the Foot of the Fiscal cliff.
Frozen inside an icicle, a starling.
When the thaw comes, the starling will let us know
and sing again another stolen song.
Winter Song Two
Minus 5 wind chill,
the Caterham train
rolls in 35 minutes late,
a sheet of ice sheers off
one carriage roof, shatters.
Two Black girls scream
chicken bones picked clean at their feet.
Pumped up in puffer jackets
they waddle like King Penguins
argue over last chips,
beaks greasy, moist with fat.
Untitled For Now
Dreamy blond
wired up to her i-pad
watching a video of herself
dancing topless on a white catamaran
sailing to mythical Ithaca-
no legs Sammy zips past
in a nifty battered wheelchair- menthol vape plume
sickly but not as sickly as vanilla.
I like the look of the ceramic antelope head
in the window of the Calabash of Culture.
I like the look and feel
of my white suede Doc Martens-
the new signage on Selims kebab house.
~
Squatters outside
the Jehovah place of worship,
tagged in the town hall forum
as eastern European
are in fact, hard core
Glaswegian spice heads.
Inside a Asda shopping trolley
-a polar bear head on a traffic cone
their street art legacy-untitled for now.
September squall
take cover
under Mr Haji’s awning.
A proper butcher with a bloody apron.
A butcher who smokes as he chops
slabs of lamb and oxtail.
A shop you pass in warmer months
and slightly dry wretch- that warm meat smell.
The boy rained up next to me
is Syrian-his right leg-a prosthetic-
a military fitting maybe.
He Skype calls-looks like his mother-
a small kitchen table-bay leaves on a string
above the baby belling stove.
Ice cold mint tea to builders brew in Chefs Delight.
Watch out for mobile phones thieves.
Watch out for Pitbull rocky and his loony master.
Avoid Captain Pawn.
David Crystal
London November 14th 2018
Illustratiom Nick Victor