Gabrials Hill Grit Poem by James Hull

Cha Cha away with ya, angles in dark masked helmets
fire choral spinning beauty across gibbering bystanders and blessed
are the low profile thin spotted ties, lynching the hangers on
crusting themselves with white powder power, hiding on toilet seats
escaping the cruel pretensions of steamed windows on hourly bus routes.
Friends of friends and drinks with superglued atoms of trifling matters,
squealing pitch soaring, bums in the doorways cardboard snoring,
making shadow puppets with police sirens blue pulse
understated undertakers, knocking cheeks on pavements.

Beauty, so much, for the love of tessellating bricks.
Soak the past away with beaten memory glands and man the forts till day;
in the white walled scummy surface tank for the bars cut,
just a release. Fireworks in purple upstairs rooms
with all the donner greased fingers that go gliding through,
cruelty in our little crossroad world, so Andy smiles
a scruffy smile, of a cheating mischief road-sign thief.

Squiffy walks and skewhiff talks, through the medium of streetlight stars
we bubble till we gurgle. Watch all the silhouettes catching armpits sweat
flinging the motion everywhere, exploding young cannon balls
crash and splinter the hulls of polo shirt ships, cracked battlements
a scattered battalion and I, to the chaotic flyover naked without the cars
dream the coming bourgeoning doubts of empty packets of cigarettes,
'That young lassie needed some hand between her and that laddie'
that my lords and ladies is the cruelty. Siphoning the speakers energy
The thin blue or white line, back-rooms locked door dungeons
shrouded sapping, advantage taken, we can't look too close.

The crackling street comes to rest in fear of the dawnbreak
Friends of mine shout down from their windows at the sad stooper
Out in the ally the dumpsters wanna barney, grit teeth Andy
Chaotic heroics, the cider superhero; Grit Teeth Andy.