slow, indolent ‘yak’ ‘yak’ echoing over cracked, vacant concrete lots;
looking for love, looking for a wife;
as, below; weeds, trees, pets and people struggle for life.
Doctor Shivago selling ice creams;
twice a day, maybe three, if it’s hot;
overweight, unmarried mothers, daydream,
of Omar Sharif, over a revered toke of pot.
Fat, solitary pigeons, roosting,
sharing a threadbare, brown velour suite,
Vodka blue and ice in hand,
lending their flatulent confidence a boost;
toasting their crew cut little darlings;
plunging around, hungry, flying ant fed starlings,
spindly legs, splayed and set,
puffed out chests, and miniscule arms, they bet;
‘Can have you, can have you mate’
snotty faces, grimacing; not quite the full deck;
not just yet…
Mums’ shout, a ganga induced cackle;
the growing cancer, a throaty rattle.
Dead blackbirds, decaying on the grass,
massive crows hover; real food is sparse.
Dad, home at last, only to be told;
‘kick that fuckin’ kid’s arse’
Wonders, silently, if he’s had any reply…
Block capitals, red, the local Paki’s:
‘££££ OFFERED FOR LOST WHITE, STAFFIE –
UGLY, BIG EARS (AND BANDY)
ANSWERS TO THE NAME OF: MAHATMA… OR GANDHI’
