Shifting, swiftly. Eyes on, and off, and on and on and on the rolling stock; and stares and jeers as I’m herded through the cattle gates.
I bob and weave through the hordes, and streams and reams of ads and headless headlines; about his constipation, her menstruation, and their lord and saviour Jehovah.
Whiffles and prickles of musty aftershave notes. They trickle and mix with the thirty-degree tears, soaking creased cotton shirts and mouldy socks as I cheerfully observe the deep red blur of the buses.
I briefly blush as I glance at the crooked teeth of the stinking, smiling drunk. And yet, the stench of booze belies her serenity. A true grace defamed by a chequered past.
I wander, then wonder what lies behind the flat faced guise of the shoppers, heaving half full bags of semi-skimmed blood, milk, and the sweat of lemon bleach. The weary, war-torn teens, who battle bravely against the powers of peer pressure, puberty and pop culture; blinded by the chains of the rap and trap, you hear the shackle and shake of those gaudy bonds and irons; and the echoes of clemency.
Their struggles seem numerous, onerous. Sandwiched between a rock and a hard place, filled with cold-cut chicken; and the fears, dreams and well-worn wishes of the virtuous, frivolous and poor.
This is Dalston Kingsland, and there is no rank and file, for we are worthy of its title and station.