Wardour Street

Soho streets , strewn with prayer.
Paupers shrink, the alleyways
crouch dirty.
And I
see lights like neon nothing,
dark agnostic crowds
surge on and swell,
clasping contact -
mobile phones
the mourning bell.

Raving days, guitary shop fronts,
spinning vinyl,
G and T. All soaked
in pinkey satin streetlight. Covers pain
with gentle hand.

Pornagraphic, mosaic phonebooth
Tiled with lust, atomic dust.
And diesel, oil, and scents of city
Scent of you,
flowers rust.

Ejaculate, spew, fall over
Morning ills are sacred here.
Pills and powder,
cold clam chowder,
lines and brown in junkie veins.

Goodbye writers, poets, dancers,
cleave my step from Wardour street.
The beat of feet, the tongue of evil,
sickens so I'm going home.