Monday, September 19, 2005


A couple of months back I decided I was going to be the extremely unofficial (and highly dubious) poet-not-quite-in-residence (but living round the corner) for the forthcoming olympic games in London. This is the first draft of the second poem written for that marvellous folio:


Workshy, rushed, rushing
to work late like binmen.
Exit chores: the disposal
of food waste has me
leaping for air, fungus
spores lifted by the glush
of rot from bucket
to bin to neck me like
a ribbon, gold in a light
from a blue-sky morning.

Later, waiting for buses:
a glass carriage drawn
by white horses, plumed.
A train of sleek cars,
mournerless, parading
through Mare Street. Silver
handlebars decorate
a white coffin: I shall
remember those ornaments
around a stranger's corpse.

Hackney Town Hall must have
fresh steps, new adornments
to match the flutter
of flags. Seven years
to spruce this corpse,
recycle this pock-worn
friend of a town. Folks
need architecture to recall
the momentary glory,
the bronze of bling.


  1. Thanks for dropping by, Tony. Happy browsing!


  2. Hey Rik, passing through. Remember you from years ago at aapc.