Rapid transit to other
Pointed shoes facing forwards
Standing strong under piped jeans.
Those other formal footwear do
Walk away in shame,
Scuttling off for their papers and
Coffees in plastic cups.
These shoes head to East London,
Over cobbled streets and past betting shops
Where old men lean over pints counting pennies
And whores bend over car bonnets.
The owner thrusts forth her mighty pound instead
For pickled eels, pies and winkles,
Sausages and mash or other such delicacies.
These winkle-pickers point,
Reminiscent of 14th century populaines,
Rock gods and miss-spent youth,
Mods, Punks and Rock’n’Roll die-hards.
Aggressive stance adopted,
Hands in pockets with elbows protruding outward
Checking ribs of businessmen hurrying past.
That which is outside the general commercial canon,
Outside in rain-soaked streets stamping
Wildly in puddles, flicking cigarette butts pointedly
At commercials for trans-national corporations,
Banks, Starbucks and all things mundane.
These shoes are independent-edged,
Not wary of yellow-lines/ will not keep back.
They thrive within the over-crowded underground,
They call to be scuffed and stretched,
To be stuck on chewing gum spat out and rats.
The underground is cutting and in its element
And is the only form of intimate physical contact for
80% of Londoners.
The hot sweaty confines of steel buses underground
Provide the ideal backdrop to strut,
Shoe first leading hips swaggering
Yes these shoes shall sip from beer bottles merrily
And puff on freshly-roled fags with enthusiasm
With disdain for tuts and tarts on hen-nights,
Or eyes eagerly poured over CCTV footage
Waiting for another criminal to light up at the station.
These shoes aren’t bombs or knives or guns,
But they’ll breed discontent and prickle the skin
I can do anything in these
These are my fucking