The turbulence of a dalliance
Words we remember,
echo in the brain,
costermongers just the same
costard a medieval variety of apple
and the monger is the seller.
In plain sight.
Words we remember,
echo in the brain,
bounce off the surfaces:
so few will remain.
Wind's around the window pane,
blowing a northerly gale
next day is a Sunday
a peasouper, then a gale
rain-splatters the coster
no love sorry, sorry not late.
Costers inhabit the soul of London
from Berwick Street Market
west to old Portobello.
Our tales are built on lies,
deceptions ripe and drear
bruises that fall to children
scampering along in fear,
These tales we tell to children
when their eyes overflow with tears.
Tales to curry favour
to laugh at the tripe
rock salmon, jellied eels,
dying like old England,
like the costermongers of yore.
A pretended past strokes our egos
we're at the centre of our own romance
with lives lived without empathy
in a staccato sort of dance.
for those who live on tenterhooks
as they write their imaginary books.
The coster's tale, contrary-wise,
grows more alive
with each movement over paper,
with each note upon the score,
delineated with a hysterical panache,
by that clumsily, childishly, clash
of dislocated, muddled, absurd
dalliance with the word.
To take our dreams away.
and infantilise our live-long day.
echo in the brain,
costermongers just the same
costard a medieval variety of apple
and the monger is the seller.
In plain sight.
Words we remember,
echo in the brain,
bounce off the surfaces:
so few will remain.
Wind's around the window pane,
blowing a northerly gale
next day is a Sunday
a peasouper, then a gale
rain-splatters the coster
no love sorry, sorry not late.
Costers inhabit the soul of London
from Berwick Street Market
west to old Portobello.
Our tales are built on lies,
deceptions ripe and drear
bruises that fall to children
scampering along in fear,
These tales we tell to children
when their eyes overflow with tears.
Tales to curry favour
to laugh at the tripe
rock salmon, jellied eels,
dying like old England,
like the costermongers of yore.
A pretended past strokes our egos
we're at the centre of our own romance
with lives lived without empathy
in a staccato sort of dance.
for those who live on tenterhooks
as they write their imaginary books.
The coster's tale, contrary-wise,
grows more alive
with each movement over paper,
with each note upon the score,
delineated with a hysterical panache,
by that clumsily, childishly, clash
of dislocated, muddled, absurd
dalliance with the word.
To take our dreams away.
and infantilise our live-long day.
Hurray!
