Twenty three twelve and the nib starts to itch,
the bin men are out on their rounds,
sounds in the air and the night’s everywhere
at twenty three twelve.
An address I know well,
a place where the loneliness wells up,
where desperation is in the cup that I drink,
I know it well.
The old lady on Shaftesbury avenue who’s not really old,
the young lad down in Knightsbridge who is, both
strangers to these ancient shores
who expected much more than this.
All streets are the same are the
that hide in shame and in some gods name
I ask why.
And in Carnaby street where fashion clashes aloud with the neon lights,
there are such sights as you’ve never seen,
but I’ve been there and at twenty three twelve
it seems to me I’ve been everyone everywhere
there at some time.
I need to scratch me a patch of blue sky,
smell and it might tell me why or at least,
I can feast on the question.
© 2016, John Smallshaw.