Old London

the tongs stroke the old stones dragged
behind a barrel of snow crusted wares
it is evening and the street seller
has had his day in the crowds
his money safe in the barrel
and his repertoire proven  
his net cast over the stream
of puzzled faces slipping past
every so often one bites
and asked what the coloured balls
hanging on his stall meant
and he could begin
unfolding old newspapers
and inserting exclamation points
to waiting atmosphere

The selling of goods on the street allow the shopkeepers difference
the sound of hoofs on cobble stones
betraying infarction around old bones
and the new circus at Piccadilly
may mean anything to anyone
the one at Holborn or indeed Chester
this idea of surrounding ourselves with rings
we drive around clockwise
it is only natural

this manifest arrangement of streets
bedazzled imagination floundering
feeling first to reach the apex of the
moon shined coast line

the angels and devils shared a cab and took it down underground
below the rats and trains below the waste rivers and worms
into that place of allegiance where the broom stalk flying fish
examine the daft stories taken home by soldiers that become memory
when what actually happened resorts to thinking only while asleep
the patterns in the sky were explaining why
nothing would make sense when shopping

defend yourself from the angled sting
again and again ants wander up the hill and enter its crater

a groove in the tooth of a lion
where death may be inflicted
as her jaw falls and blood spurts
the animal at first paused before the life rushed out
the candle is wax again rewind time and all the sand
sits in the top waiting in suspension
an orderly queue of grains fall
from the space cleaned out in the attic
upstairs where thoughts decay