A TRILOGY OF OBSERVATIONS ON LIFE IN 21st CENTURY BRITAIN.
THE LOST BOY
THE GOOD TIME GIRLS
INNER CITY STREET
There’s always a dog, skinny and black,
limping past two old lads, one wearing
a scowl the other a stained Mac,
heads shaking across the road,
where a child plays at grown ups
pushing a toy pram with toy doll
that’s real who’ll have no dad but
many uncles who drink cider from
At the gate smiles the old lass hoping
to see the bairn, but mum hurries past
a mere glance offered, the candyfloss
crowned face now crushed. Back inside
she shines ornaments of brass.
While foul curses and spitting arrive,
common as muck and raggedy-arsed
lads, grey skin and dirty hands and always
gum and crisps, pieces of wood with
wheels and string, a stolen pint of milk
and the quick head needed to survive.