Thursday 14 March 2024

Urban Renaissance (v.rough draft)


Green grow’th the holly

So doth the ivy

Though winter blasts blow na’er so high

Green grow’th the holly

Gay are the flowers

Hedgerows and ploughlands

Under the White paper the air blurs

the landscrapes pulls away dead chainlink, 

boathouse nomads

vanish under variable sills

under marine primer 

ditch the keycard,,

ditch the key fob,, 

ditch the key chain,,

British moral life is installed on Teams, 

Chat & videoconferencing, file storage

drawn from the same

gas as the peeling skins plea bitten 

the underclass discussed on mumsnet

Do we have one? Why?

Who or what is responsible?

When did it all go wrong?

Answers on a postcard

the routed ends of hope 

disowning old parasite gates

micro segregation Marina developments 

to sugar the pill,

—the clerical, sales, construction workforce,

drivers and machine operators

I cannot live its black spot anymore,

cannot linger in its blank tinge

wharfages careering frontier spirited 

Russell Group firebrands

in momentums return 

to the land tradefloor with prat jaw

crocked on zero-tolerance braces,

Rosewood Calf Leathers 

to kick me down this gangway 

job pissed town is yours in a sports bag:

'We’re trying to move people

from a benefit dependency culture

to an enterprise culture'

slowly dies a light in Quango fortified,

stock-brick-clad ground-floor blast walls

scratching the edge forevermore &

 The post-Good

Era Two is more optimistic, its spec

boasting holes made to see out of  

‘I want to be the best. I want to do my own thing.

I want to excel. I want to go to the gym.

I want to study business law.

I want to see West End shows.

I want business sponsorship.’


Retreat on quoin metal 
black bile around our heads 
a buzzword 

of tearing. ON. nothing 

& actual slogans 12 acres & square in size

gruel city shilled nights in 

glue of self,, red wrapped tunics skies

around our heads steel maiden

holding up a ring,

or an arch, or something

you go beyond taires of wasteland

at what scale, and of which nature? 

pitted with illuminated water features 

a fountain’s droplets 

over the hum of a not-too-distant 

business district winding down

plastic art planted in concrete 

woven into and circle 

a twelve-foot anchor 

drenched in treacle-like gloss paint; 

on one leg burrowed in 

annuities, solstices, sanctuaries, woes 

my heart is dumb brassic

Stupid working class Kent scum 

wiping off at the diadem floodlights 

around dead fens being dead

the midnight purpling hue 

a more vengeful revanchism 

remains emptied pockets, 

tough on, a spitting yob burnished 

tongue into sharp relief  

its 10-point code of conduct struck 

down & forbade 

a group of beggars

& the dictates by squeegee 

winos ‘mole people’ 

chew the fat

footloose brig adders

wriggle out in virid pilule