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.
The Philosopher's Poet 