Day 26: Winklepickers

Rapid transit to other

Location.

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

On ‘bootleg’,

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

With pride.

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

With anger,

With

I can do anything in these

Shoes.

These are my fucking

Shoes.

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