this is not a dream,
dreams are much more fun.
stratford streets scattered with deep fried chicken bones,
the carnivores have no remorse for there victims.
averting my gaze i am greeted by faded concrete legs,
all covered with tatoos,
like Englands summer.
oh hail the inhabitants,
for the little respect they have,
this is not proggression,
narcotic nests and vodka seeping sucked on breasts,
little wonder we resort to regression.
hope glimmers upon petrol fumes,
the temptress, is undressed by my eyes,
her body beats out secret tempting tunes,
that has me dancing long after our brief goodbyes.
my mind transforms the world into words,
to satify a visual thirst,
to write what i see,
be it the distracting glow of the easy bird,
or the ragged worn man in seach of his long gone family.
in every town within home,
there reveals a soap story,
and Eden is either found in a window box,
or in a cloned fenced segment of land.
paradise sits contently on burning black
rocks of charcoal.
that are manned with pride.
as i aproach the local school,
i feel the loneliness of the palyground,
6 weeks without the sound,
of little feet.
the beat of innocence
is sorely missed.
the footsteps stop,
the key meets the lock,
another soap story begins.