lilydjames:poetry

He came to London in 1968, to Soho. A 16 year old boy fresh from the village. His older brother and sister had gone to Canada and he had worked summer jobs at the local hotel, he knew he wanted to travel too, to go ‘abroad’. One of his uncles on visit home suggested he come to London, and so he did. He had two uncles living and running businesses in Soho. One of them ran a caff on a lucrative corner in Soho; the other ran many, even more lucrative, clubs and clip joints. By the time our boy got here the latter was languishing at Her Majesty's Pleasure - an extended holiday to the one he’d been busted on in Greece, the one he’d been enjoying with the head of the metropolitan police, a long term business associate of his. They both got in a lot trouble over that one. For three years our boy helped the other uncle keep all the businesses afloat. From the moment he started working, he had his suits made on Berwick Street, he was earning 3 times as much as his peers outsid...

'Tyrone' - an evocative name a kind of celebrity name (Tyrone Power) he's not though, he's an electrician (Tyrone power) but he has been in the Evening Standard London Summer / Autumn 2011

Kinky as he is he just can't wank wearing ear plugs which makes it hell on overnight flights

i am too fragile to be around you too easily disturbed by brittle trite expressions and kinetic overload sharp elbows constant movement not to mention the noise the constant constant talking suggestion crudely poised to enter any sentence at any given time - let me make my mind up it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine

So I sit here writing poems, using maths Bringing order to emotion, counting words And if someone doesn't get it, cannot see It's just they don't get poetry, flow, or me.

(this poem is brought to you by iambic tetrameter ) the moribund middle classes are making little lists of all the things they have and everything they’ve missed “oh dear what have we missed?” now they want to own the cities they want to own the council flats schools for their own little people playtime with smoothies, yoga mats they pout and shout and stamp their feet no money left, they fear the chop the social ladder kicked away no more room nearly at the top “might have to sack the nanny, love” so they’re losing benefits too along with the right to feel smug or better placed than me and you we all now face redundancy all face inflation and despair when looking around for comfort they're finding it's no longer there their boss, their broker, their system have all forgotten to play fair the cracks are showing in the dream it’s called designer-wear and tear.