Stroud Green Road in the Rain

The bus driver is only doing his job-

 

he says i am out of my zone

 

come on mate- take a look at the rain-

 

i just want to get home

 

never mind- its not too far to walk

 

as this sudden shower comes steaming down

 

London Bus lookin all shiny red new in the rain.

 

so i take cover and hudde on the pavement

 

and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt

 

,washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-

 

search and return to the gushing thames

 

in drab doorway i see pregnant mother

 

with dripped make-up and cigarette-

 

a bloke runs past into the Tote-

 

theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol

 

The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-

 

pumpin out da reggae sound all round

 

an chillin there inside snug

 

an outside da rain drippin down.

 

headless wooden mannequins in windows

 

indifferent and dead to the scene

 

model outdated displays

 

of yesteryears east end Fashion

 

The screech -grind -halt-

 

of braking trucks and cars

 

taxis and buses

 

and halt heave hum, go off and on

 

phrases like jazz

 

emitted from the traffic hissing

 

on the wet steam road

 

passing the plain low gates

 

and walls of modest eastend brick

 

Little pockets of Istanbul-

 

vending exotic skewered tastes

 

empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-

 

sickly sweet old vegetable odours

 

curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes

 

- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,

 

Karla, Kassava and Jamaican mangoes

 

Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple p'taters

 

an mumble she grumble onward, homeward

 

past the asian butcher selling cows feet

 

fifty nine pence for two

 

sad looking cadavers of chickens

 

comically -hung by their feet

 

boney alien headless n sad

 

and blood spurted and smeared

 

and dried on a cardboard box-

 

so rich an odour of spice and death-

 

what words to use

 

yams and hams and potted jams

 

shelves stacked with imported cans

 

grinding horror of the butchers blade

 

splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box.

 

brown Black plantain bananas-

 

fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-

 

kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-

 

Illegible torn bills and posters on posts

 

walls and naked wooden doors

 

of cracked paint peeling in the rain

 

Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins

 

scattered uprooted far travelled communities

 

stirred in the stew of this eclectic london Crucible

 

shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-

 

an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing

 

twins to the child support centre-

 

wishin she'd married a bloke with money

 

north africans in bright kaftans

 

saunter surreally in the full cool, attitude of summer

 

somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters

 

seem more misplaced in this scene-

 

people with gaunt girocheque expressions

 

huddled in Pub over pints

 

awaiting the Worlds End

 

To my left number plates while you wait

 

keys cut school of motoring special rates

 

then a right into finsbury station out f te rain

 

and the scene fades