London is an Old Leather jacket

Not a poem yet ...

Returning to London (after time away)
Is like discovering an old favourite jacket
At the back of a wardrobe.
One of those great old
leather ones that your girlfriend made
you relegate to a hanger.

On putting it back on,
One admires one's reflection
And wonders why it was
Sectioned to those shady, packed confines
Of sartorial exile.

Six months later,
Or thereabouts. You might catch
the tired, sad reflection once again
And, with a sigh, realise it might be time for it to
Go back to the mothballed recesses
within once more. But until you have a new
jacket you'll keep wearing it just the same ...

Motspur Park

Mumble, drool, loll, lurch
Drunken schoolgirls sit with jerks.
Piss, stink, booze, lose
Shout your fucked up Middle England views,
Fart, wheeze, cough, spit,
Same sentiments, same old shit.
Con, brag, thieve, grieve,
Give me bad attitude if you please.
Clunk, click, cunt, prick,
Half-dozed off the loser sits.
Teeter, totter, stretch, sigh,
A glimpse of adolescent pink-white thigh.
Mediocre, adequate, useless, grey
Give me love - straight or gay.
Blow, charlie, E's, trips
Kiss me with your fast-food lips.
Lust, last, time, again
That was me on a different train.