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Awake in the Streets - [London]
These red roving monsters rolling the streets.
Decked and overdecked; some decked to the brim. Toning a tune akin to the tin of a tuna can. The tune of "how many can we get in here, before we have an excuse to miss several stops as we're now over capacitated"
- The convinient inconvinience of whats readily available, but not all the time.
Late for work as you watch your precious dime, make a mockery of you in soot covered dust, taking hostage your colleagues, to the same mill you cry to get to, so you can cry to get out.
Through all the passages, through all the places, through all the alleys, and through all the wayes; through all the gardens and through all the mews. Brown brick walls and red ones too. Cobbled throws lay warm on the earth. While LED victorian shapes the historians purview to mimick new ages birth.
Whats it all worth? When the patchwork preservation is enamelled to the gums of original dirt with faux future fittings of so called "true character". It too, becomes the lies it tells itself.
Down the same road where Marylebone flows. Long. A church indented with a business school.
The case on the left, atop of the stairs, stands one half of a pair. The bride, shining, high, showered with flashes of artificial stars from the mass of the indentured guests. To the rest of society, a gathered pest. The collective noun, God knows best. But you wonder how all the interest, this mob does invest on this day of excessive spend dresses and suits?
Made up to prove "this isn't just your day. Let me too, show these people, i havent seen in a year or two. Probably more, or never knew that i know how to contribute in spend a few.
Case on the right. And open case, of open shoes, dragging a case, monicered suit, but like the carrier, it too is empty and broken in right. Handling days, and handling nights from the package of its ownself. Ripped and full of cries. Bespoke, his fit, though rarely scarce. He spends his days without the means to spend and yet, he spends away, a way to spend the day. Those on the left, burdening heft, shining bright, while he on the right is burdening light, bearing the darkened fight.
I don't suppose the juxtopose is equal to the ardent groove of the imposed business school. The bizz nests cool. Though the wings of this bird, does split the refuge
Down hidden streets are embassies. Where emmisaries are sent to feed a sentimented
centipede of entropy decended down from enmity. Though its a good hiding place when escaping the law of the land you're in. Just find your own in theirs.
Maybe its my mistake. From certain squares to places. We find palaces out of place. Maybe i can't relate. Maybe the owners of these estates are busied up with teas and bakes. So they don't know, just down the road a company of homeless folk are fighting for half a cake.
Stand a street corner long enough, and observe with objective judgement. You'll come to see the rarely seen everpresent chaos of passing individual lives. The modest and hedonistic are meshed into one. The fragrance of the workers trailing their masters, pushing their workload behind them, allowing chatter of idle argument in matters of little matter to flail the leading front.
Class doesn't discriminate as long as you're one in the same. I saw a man carrying artwork. A brand new, bubble wrapped frame. God blew a diss in gust to show no work or art surpasses his invents. So dropped the frame and brought to rubble the glass, once full in pane. The smash was heard from all four corners though not one skipped a beat. Some passed comment, some walked on.
As he lugs his once silent still, what is it now that he feels? .
© Haiych
Decked and overdecked; some decked to the brim. Toning a tune akin to the tin of a tuna can. The tune of "how many can we get in here, before we have an excuse to miss several stops as we're now over capacitated"
- The convinient inconvinience of whats readily available, but not all the time.
Late for work as you watch your precious dime, make a mockery of you in soot covered dust, taking hostage your colleagues, to the same mill you cry to get to, so you can cry to get out.
Through all the passages, through all the places, through all the alleys, and through all the wayes; through all the gardens and through all the mews. Brown brick walls and red ones too. Cobbled throws lay warm on the earth. While LED victorian shapes the historians purview to mimick new ages birth.
Whats it all worth? When the patchwork preservation is enamelled to the gums of original dirt with faux future fittings of so called "true character". It too, becomes the lies it tells itself.
Down the same road where Marylebone flows. Long. A church indented with a business school.
The case on the left, atop of the stairs, stands one half of a pair. The bride, shining, high, showered with flashes of artificial stars from the mass of the indentured guests. To the rest of society, a gathered pest. The collective noun, God knows best. But you wonder how all the interest, this mob does invest on this day of excessive spend dresses and suits?
Made up to prove "this isn't just your day. Let me too, show these people, i havent seen in a year or two. Probably more, or never knew that i know how to contribute in spend a few.
Case on the right. And open case, of open shoes, dragging a case, monicered suit, but like the carrier, it too is empty and broken in right. Handling days, and handling nights from the package of its ownself. Ripped and full of cries. Bespoke, his fit, though rarely scarce. He spends his days without the means to spend and yet, he spends away, a way to spend the day. Those on the left, burdening heft, shining bright, while he on the right is burdening light, bearing the darkened fight.
I don't suppose the juxtopose is equal to the ardent groove of the imposed business school. The bizz nests cool. Though the wings of this bird, does split the refuge
Down hidden streets are embassies. Where emmisaries are sent to feed a sentimented
centipede of entropy decended down from enmity. Though its a good hiding place when escaping the law of the land you're in. Just find your own in theirs.
Maybe its my mistake. From certain squares to places. We find palaces out of place. Maybe i can't relate. Maybe the owners of these estates are busied up with teas and bakes. So they don't know, just down the road a company of homeless folk are fighting for half a cake.
Stand a street corner long enough, and observe with objective judgement. You'll come to see the rarely seen everpresent chaos of passing individual lives. The modest and hedonistic are meshed into one. The fragrance of the workers trailing their masters, pushing their workload behind them, allowing chatter of idle argument in matters of little matter to flail the leading front.
Class doesn't discriminate as long as you're one in the same. I saw a man carrying artwork. A brand new, bubble wrapped frame. God blew a diss in gust to show no work or art surpasses his invents. So dropped the frame and brought to rubble the glass, once full in pane. The smash was heard from all four corners though not one skipped a beat. Some passed comment, some walked on.
As he lugs his once silent still, what is it now that he feels? .
© Haiych
