Cease Trading

It's easy pickings in 

the meat market tonight, 

with no ceiling light on

it's open season, 

all contraband 

will be removed, 

sentimental possessions 

will be valued 

and siphoned 

through black market connections, 

oh, how fast a life becomes mutton, 

done, dusted, 

cremated, 

a series of reflections 

memories manifest softly 

complication and litigation 

of legal means disrupts

the mourning process

gentrification comes next

as the champagne socialists

complete their purchases

waving a watch on their wrist

over wireless transaction modules  

scenester vulture’s circle

picking the remaining flesh 

from the carcass of character

we use to call old London 

and as the publican of the year 

is laid to rest, I can see 

"the times are changing" 

and everywhere 

I've loved has 

since ceased trading