BaRking NatiVity

We boy astrologers search for Venus
every night; constellation gazers
yeah! that’s us, eyeing up council estate slappers
laser backlit as dancefloor angels, ultraviolet delight
round the back alley, skirt up left leg wrap;
pant! pant! pant! shake down zip it up quick
she’s that dun-in on Alcopops gonna be sick:
laters luv give yer a bell next week.
Another less than immaculate conception.

Mary-jane never heard from Joe again.
Sixteen years young with a kick brat inside ‘er,
sits all alone princess in Barking Towers;
high
twenty fourth floor of a planner’s wet dream
complete with en suit piss puddles in the stairwell
crack dens in the subterranean car park;
not there on the blueprint
of a less than immaculate concept.

When kick brat want out
Mary-jane ain’t got a scoobie-do,
the lifts are bust. Calls for an ambulance;
no-go location, from clouds to dole-lands
is a big drop destination. Panic town.
She calls her main man King Skag
with two mates from East Ham and Forest Gate
on the A13 following tailgate lights
heading east bearing gifts of chocolate
vodka and pain relief
clambered into her flat in time to help
with cooking hits and building bongs
to make it flow for Mary-jane and her boy
she will call: Bastard Son Of Him
(or Baz for short).

Joe’s been told a rumour
some stupid slut’s put the word out.
Yeah ‘e remembers ‘er alright
‘cos she were sick and also the rot
she gave his dick so ‘e’s keen
to put an end to being bad-mouthed
by a mare of a one night stand
and headed off for Barking station
when his mate said; “Hey Joe,
where you going with that gun in yer hand?”

 

 

©2007 P.A.Levy
First Published by Dryland 2015