Desperation Road

 

It's lined with naked branches whipped thin by the howling of gales,

From its mouthing of spittle to unforgettable, unforgivable contempt,

Shouting longing and loud at losing bets, the torn up ticket fails

To subdue the call of next time, the next day; gathering, crowding, rent

 

By Metropolitan Police on horseback, pale geldings rear in fright,

a rider's flung, truncheon flailing, eyes shouting to the shiny cobbled road.

Protesters mock and stamping, eye slits of hatred, busting to fight

A copper on the ground, knifed in the back. “Quick, while his head's bowed”.

 

Then I saw up the road mad civil servants of a marbled throne pay homage

To its frigid stone, like a Roman Senator wrapped toga-like for wounded gladiators,

Turn and stalk single men and women who are separated where the damage

Hides the sins of the great, great grandfathers, who saw not that the initiators

 

Are the winners in every fight because only they know how to manufacture truth,

And go singing like a canary in its cage until the monoxide rises, and it goes to sleep.

And the winners retreat to their stamping ground, round Camden Market's easy youth,

Handy with flick knives, mostly at night when the cops can't find us, the creeps.

 

So the night ending, human debris scatter pathways and alleyways, mostly alive,

Some bleeding in drunk oblivion, but never in Desperation Road where lies are the truth,

Where rent boys charge ten quid for three whole minutes down the stairs, and skive

Their coffin nails as a token of wares, the power of possession, and their golden youth.

 

Chris Hubbard, 2020