Council Estate

At the train station
commuters spawn
from all directions
pouring off escalators,
seeping out of elevators.
Crowds swelling, woven
together with invisible
threads, lurching and
thrusting towards exits, each one
in turn spilling out on to the street.
Then like dandelion seeds
in a harrying breeze,
they scatter in all directions.

I head towards my estate
where the traffic wanes
and unregistered foot-
steps quicken the pulse
and jealousy is reserved
exlusively for petty things:
larger balances, engines,
houses, incomes, biceps, testes.
Where aggressive children are untamable
and unemployment is unavoidable
where the safety nets of social security
would be better described as cobwebs.
Where decent people are savaged and diminished
by the daily functionings of this estate.

Walking onwards,
towards home where
concrete has conquered pasture
where houses get smaller and dirtier
and the streets branch out narrow and sinewy.
So condensed and intimate are these streets.
Stream lined clouds are finely spreaded across the
sky's canvass by stray aeroplanes, and as the
light drains from the electric blue horizon
intenser becomes the atmosphere
now every sound is amplified.
Walking further into the
heart of this giant amphitheatre
the sweat prickles on my neck
as I listen attentively to the
sounds of listless urban wildlife,
lawnmowers and strimmers
house-alarms and distant car horns
dogs yelping and scuffling round kennels.
And attentively I listen
to the sounds from beyond
net curtains when windows
are thrown wide open,
The bellows and
tantrums of parent
v adolescent showdowns
and the sounds of meal-times
the clatter of cutlery and
chairs scraping across floors.
Televisions sets blarring
and old couples flicking
though the T.V times
orchestrating their
evenings entertainment.

Walking onwards
in the punishing sun,
past sun blanched linen
draped over balconies
sweaty shrubs and sticky tarmac
weeds, brambles, beer cans
poking out beneath
wilting fences.
Alleyways littered with
shards of glistening green glass,
I walk past a pale kid on a wall
swinging his legs in solitude.
Further I probe
theres carrier bags skittering
over parched grass banks
dusty piles of debris and
battered to-let signs
the smell of bonfires
and old men on door-
steps reading newspapers.
Knowing I can't stand days like this
everything ordinary is magnified
exposed for what it is either spoilt,
soured, or just merely
functioning, aimlessly existing,
for what? to be replaced by what?
to be devoured by what? Time?
To be improved alone by what? Chance?
Or individual fortune? Or large-scale altruism,
By those who pull the levers in this country?
Ha! Drug dealers and prostitutes have made
fortunes and careers out of us lot mitigating
the drudgery of living around here.

Two streets away
I pass near the church
I hear the choir within it and
their mournful apologetic songs
sung solemly to their dieties in defiance.
Together they stand amid fluid emotions
harmonised and fused as one.

Launderettes and bookies
contain such lovely people.
Though some now forlorn
frail and timorous, they still
stand as a tribute and testament
to the generation in which they belong.
Lovely people, throughout their entire life
they've maintained their dignity
lived obediently and respectfully
what an example to us all!
Of how obediance and respect
are not agents for change!
Or establishing a dignified
standard of living round here!