About the poem:
I live in area of London called Brixton that at the moment is undergoing huge changes. Million pound houses bump up against slums and as new money pours in and commercial and residential rents skyrocket, local residents and shopkeepers are finding it harder and harder to survive. This process has been swift, encompassing and destructive. The theme of flooding seemed the perfect way to capture and explore it.
Crow Hollow 19
The Price of Things
I was stupid, not paying attention and now the house prices are rising and I'm exposed. I live
in a place where tides meet. A nexus of doffed hats and carriages and lies stuffed with
additives and the truth is: they’ll never know. Here, the starving split seats and the rich
pound rubber piped from gun barrels. Where nostalgia is the taste of Mie Goreng, costing
more than rent on the home they left to afford more than Mie Goreng. Where the poor hang
mid-kiss, after money's crush is minted down to an electronic wink, bullet hard.
I pass terraces bristling like weightlifters and townhouses that march toward the station
carrying lamp posts like umbrellas. My ear buds protect me from failed economics, but not
these prices that sweep me up with lucky cats and tambourines for Jesus. A man passes,
still smiling, in a phone kiosk smaller than a restaurant toilet. Others cling to pita and cement
sacks stuffed with Senbei.
In the distance I see them, Sailing slowly up Hill Street, Scented like roses and looking to
trade with sweetness and the glint snapped from budding stones.
They loosen ties and discuss where best to eat.
I was stupid, not paying attention. I point myself toward an unlatched window. The house
prices are rising and I'm exposed.
The artist's space.
Murder Two, Winter 2015