The Songstress’s First Song
The Tale of the Lily-White Riotess
The songstress spies the chancellor through lavish
eyelashes across the ward and chuckles
throatily. Pensive she lifts her lyre and gently
plucks one string. And then another. Till
the Chancellor, sedated by the tinkling music,
is biddable and fit to hear her song. I sing
a tale, she strums, of anarchy and charm,
in London town, in times of old, long gone.
*
Threadneedle Street winds under the tall windows
of buildings mirroring the sky, the Thames
drooling its filth into the Serpentine, as fires
of fury cast their messages of demolition
and despair across the inner cities of the land.
Jah vents His rage against the whores of Babylon
like a volcano in flame; the flower
of Empire’s youth, hopes trashed, rise up tsunami-like
to surf the drudgery and downpression of the man,
in search of greener grass and bluer skies to drug
themselves and drag themselves up out of bed
to draw the dole. Punks, heads in bags, and ranting drunks
loll about idly in the streets between chippies
and pubs, bookies and shops purveying cut-price fags
and ale. Yours truly, your heroine, among them,
fallen, into this man-created world.
*
An ash of grief settles on Westminster, Whitehall
and No. 10. Trafalgar totters at the tapping
of her blue suede shoes; her ballet daps flatten the dome
of the millennium; postcoital smokers
aimlessly salute the sultry moon and ghosts
waltz on the rust belt that unites our ruined
kingdom. Usurpers one and all, bereft
of all belonging and worth, all migrants now,
we sing and dance and spit, and play the bass
guitar as London burns. Seek refuge from ourselves.
The gutter beckons its kith and kin. Like rainwater,
it rushes zealously down the drain. The brutal
cut of this urban fabric is way too drab
and desolate without an acid tab to take
the edge off it and smack to bed you down for night
and uppers in the light of dawn to pick you up
out of the public bog, as Venus in a fuzzy
blur rises in smoggy mourning sky and brassy
Mercury flits around the sun and Mars is on
the warpath once again. Pretty and pink and round
the bend, and down the rabbit hole, she goes into
a coma on the Lambeth walk.
*
The songstress curtsies,
tiptoes in kinky boots from London Eye
to topmost floor of Gherkin and of Shard
across the Garden Bridge, landing to free the ghosts
of those unjustly done to death by Tudor queens
and kings. Smoke in her eyes, she showers the passersby
on Tower Bridge with flowers and tears of gas and chucks
up lunch and Bloody Marys in the saline waters
of the murky estuary. By night, she tumbles
down the up-escalator at Waterloo,
as yobs in drainpipe trousers kick the living
daylights out of some passing sod who’s done no wrong
down in the tube station at midnight.