Priory Road

It's a scorching close season afternoon, Sunday in July,
shells of dead flying ants abound, hot enough to fry.
The stench of yesterday's fast food rises in the summer smog.
Pounding boom from an upstairs room is drowned by a barking dog.
There's no wind to blow the fish'n chip paper trapped against the wall,
feral pigeons scatter, then swoop, intent on devouring all.
Hoodweasels tail a community cop, they're relentlessly trying to goad.
Curtains are drawn in a tower block window to shut out Priory Road.

A Mother struggles with a pushchair, confessing on a mobile phone.
Her pit bull strains against his chain, trying to sniff a bone.
Settling dust gathers on the rust of a rotting turnstile gate,
tribal graffiti on the chicken run warns a legacy of hate.
Does anyone know it's Sunday? Does anyone even care?
As diesel exhaust is spewed like bile into the chocking urban air,
by a Not-In-Service London bus, with tyres hot enough to explode.
Chundering towards the depot at the bottom of Priory Road.

You never see a familiar face, or a face you recognise,
as you're passed by a shadow in a grim black veil with calculating eyes.
Alongside needles in the gutter, flies feast on a stiffening rat,
who overindulged on warfarin in the dustbin of a ground floor flat.
Cola on an overturned wheelie bin dried in the searing heat,
Starlings peck at a half eaten pie for a proper Sunday treat.
The E6 gang have tagged the place, they communicate in code.
Innitspeak is overheard rushing out of Priory Road.


Capability Red        2012

Outside Charring Cross Station

The mist is clearing and the sun is appearing
roll up, roll up, oh! the state that we're in.
Raincoat Sally, look she hops on a six
a Maltese waiter's gonna get her a fix,
rush hour people mmm? they look so exciting.
There's something about them, their lives are so frightening.
Oh, and I'm just writing again from observation.
Sitting on a bench outside Charring Cross Station.

You know? If I was an artist, I'd paint a scene
there'd be little children dropping flowers into a stream.
Grown up and playing the game by the rules,
I hear there's a plague of human beings. Tell me, who are the fools?
And I'm just rambling on outside Charring Cross Station,
not altogether certain of my destination.

I feel inspired to think up some derisory term.
Dedicate it to the Holy men and the people that will never learn.
Hey! I notice a young girl is reading Our Mutual Friend,
let's hope she understands the message at the end.
Oh, some folk say I should get a regular occupation,
but I'm happy sitting here outside Charring Cross Station.


Capability Red        1980