Kings Cross 1980's London

fogged car windows,

car horn concertos

box junction brawls, 

it’s gridlock on 

the Gray’s Inn Road

tired eyes 

tired lights 

tired nights 

as the rain 

pummels Kings Cross,

someone’s turned 

back the clocks,

window frames 

in disrepair

curtains left to rot, 

a bulb barely bright 

enough to illuminate

a matchbox 

hangs

motionless 

through

the windows 

of the squats

situated above  

the betting shops,

there’s hookers 

in the headlights 

on the back streets

of York Way, 

a girl named Wendy

on the junction of Pentonville, 

she’s selling the finest

burgers and fries,

desperate to stay alive

amid 

the impending 

‘big-mac’ invasion,

Ronald McDonald

waits for no-one,

his fast-food future

packed into a sweet

sesame seed bun

has come 

for the waistlines

and the comfort eaters, 

peering through

the pub doorways,

the cockney cartel

are still propping up the bars 

desperate to hold onto 

a modicum of their past

before the Godzilla of

gentrification replaces

the bite and passion

with the latest fashion

 

Caledonian Road

resembles a boneyard,

foxes play ‘frogger’ 

with the passing cars,

telephone boxes

covered in blu-tacked

calling cards, 

advertise 

a full body massage

for a “monkey”

a collective of junkies

congregate on

the corner of Argyle Street,

there’s an urgency

in their leprosy,

they need a hit

before they

waste away,

this is the enclave 

for the desperate 

and destitute

a dirty stop over

on the daily commute,

streets drenched in neon,

homeless spectres - ‘lost’ 

fidget under

a cardboard box

as the rain 

pummels 

Kings Cross