City by simon sylvester

kilburn weekend lunchtime
simon sylvester

Spitting, spinning, swearing, fuck ‘em
No more for me, boys
I’m off home
the reds have let us down again that second half
was like the Somme
glares on Kilburn High Street
thought it was only Irish round here

“Sir
spare a penny oh won’t you spare a penny?”

and

“Nada, nada, los desaparecidos”
He leers stinking garlic
moustache waxed and eyebrows
into tips

and

melon rinds
upon the rainwater gritstone flagstone
helicopters scudding clouds
dirty synths in upstairs windows
flooded lace curtains and cigar smoke
dirty pimps
20 bucks, up front
for a white knuckle ride
she uses spit and jelly
hand like a blur
for the second time today
salt spurt her lips curled back like a dog
murals tattered on the wall
this could be Cuba, baby
swapping cigarettes
for mobile phones
SIM cards two for one, chum
he pukes in the corner

“Honestly,
how d’ya miss a penalty like that?”

asleep on the train,
wake up in Stratford or
go back home
for no-one anymore
she left me
and from the station platform I
think I hear
a air raid-siren.