The following prose-poem
was written during my almost two year sojourn in London in the late 1980s .
Its that type of free association prose that was at the time very much
inspired by the writings of Jack Kerouac- and it most certainly is a
style that epitomizes that sense of passing through- sparse in
punctuation it truthfully reports on all it sees, with an exuberant
rolling excitement. i literally sat on the pavement to write this much
as an artist would sketch the scene around him.
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 and new in the rain
.so i take cover and huddle on the pavement
and write this poem-
as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt
washing over me toes,
Becoming rivers in the gutter-searching and returning and gushing down to The Thames
In drab doorway I see pregnant mother
with dripped make-up and cigarette-
a bloke runs past into the Tote-
That emits a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol
The cool dread hipster blackman sound shop-
pumpin out da reggae sound all round
an peeps chillin there inside all snug an dry and smokin
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model outdated displays of yesteryears east end Fashion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 east end 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 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 electric eclectic London Crucible
shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-
an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing
twins in double pram and wishing
she had married into money
North Africans in bright kaftans
surreally saunter in the sunny attitude of summer
somehow the Tottenham and Celtic supporters
seem more misplaced in this scene-
people with gaunt giro-cheque 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 of the rain
and the scene fades.
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