Viscous
As the sweet cast off of slavery's crop
Streets bloom
To the tap of taught skins
Traditions
Of summer's end. The flotsam
Of irregular masses
Jam through bottlenecks
Stone and brick
Set by empire's architects
Sun high and rich in sweat.
Amidst a deluge, rivulets push
Hard as roots
The crush, flesh dripping
Reverberates, knots and dissipates
To star-shaped, can-handed
Dancers at the break
Of Portobello, where peppered
Fluorescent yellow jackets
Are placed in shade
By rackets
And fountains of feathers
Lazarus winged,
Every colour of rainbows
And all those dug from the earth.
The grand terrace's embrace
Sprouts bromeliads of bass, apes
“Where's Anna” swing
From every fissure
With flags beyond three colours
“Portugeas?” The breeze
Howls of happiness
“Every year I” wafts
Of sweet bud, flourishing melody
“Going next door” caramelised
Meat, percussion and spice
Scale whitewash
Darwinian.
From the passage between
The Groves
Teeming like Victoria
Grow great, twice transplanted boughs
Towering Teaks, Ziggurats and Baobabs
Old as Saxon, proud
Keystones of a lively sea, glittering
And painted. An Amazon
Then shadows wake on rooftops.
Beats have blended bars into hours
Sychronised strangers to friends
Pots bubble thick and
The prowling yellow coated pride
Amongst anonymous affection
Begins to stalk.
Keystones creak and stutter
Each stillness
Shows the undergrowth of voices
Naked. The skittish herd paws tarmac
From confusion
To purpose with each rebirth
Pitched. Horns ask questions
Rally whistles, the glowering cats
Pause, lick lips and slink
As they summon to dare, pushing
The revelling West, the herd
And the rest into musical chairs.
Berimbao
Coagulates. Day blurs and lights
Make up the throng
Scraping steaming pots
Of song. Echoes in silhouette
Sway long after Elephants
Have drifted, one leg after the other,
The final leg back.
Jetsam of polystyrene, blue plastic
Spent rounds
Paper, fluorescent jackets rest in blind
Roads. Incandescents hum
Under canopies
Still standing. The shilling, curried secrets
Barrels cradled, somewhere
In the triangle, retread, hollowing
Till the last drop
Desert sand returns, faces from the night, arid stones. Shrinking
Springs succour Bedouin, long through blackness to daylight.
The streets will wake, forgetful and washed
Plus no one got killed in West London I hear
This year was a good year.
