This bubbling hubbub of babies and boobies
This packed rack of scooters, of trikes and of buggies
Steaming hot flat-whites and freezing cold smoothies
And tapas treats, chocolate sweets, all kinds of lovelies.
Here where the roads cross, facing the old cross
Where crosswords fill time or just buoy the headline’s dross
Where pizza gets eaten by Saturday dads
Where Friday lunch mums dish the news good and sad.
This raucous in calm, our oasis of mania
Awaits you in plain sight down Beckenham high street
The pit at the back for your kids to go batty in
Entices the spectrum of lively South London in.
These fucking fuckers
Fucking up our lives
For their personal stake
In our political state
Sucking our lives dry
Leading fates awry
Leaving fears to dry
And this comment’ry
Which tries to make it seem alright
Is now as bad
As the fuckers so merrily fucking us
So shame on me
for plugging in
For staying tuned and trying
How sorely fucked the feeling is
As wit washes over this fucking
That’s really surely fucking up
I hardly ever knew the game
Yet know that I’m now
A return to attempting to find my poetic voice. We have come to the end of a string of Beck’ Beat Poetry events, which have been a series of fantastical occasions! Enabling me and others to meet and hear top-class poets from across south London (and Hackney)!