She hones— I hurled you Into my arms, the Cat in my voice a queen. You, ever in reserve, shied. Around us, East London took effect— A Pole, two Sicilians, married, two Greeks drinking Cobra beers, Fang in hand, Emily the scouse violinist, a German who Thought Berlin too small.

    Shoreditch Serenade

    MiS·
    Culture
    ··1 min read
    MiS

    By Siddartha Bose

    She hones—

    I hurled you
    Into my arms, the
    Cat in my voice a queen.

    You, ever in reserve, shied.
    Around us, East London took effect—
    A Pole, two Sicilians, married, two Greeks drinking Cobra beers,
    Fang in hand, Emily the scouse violinist, a German who
    Thought Berlin too small.

    As we floated like
    Bottletops, scrap-paper, haymoss,
    Towards the estuary where Bethnal Green meets Brick Lane, I
    Felt I’d lost my wallet.
    I, artisan.

    ~~

    He groans—

    You order me, again, to
    Glen them to a bar where two summers ago Naphtali
    Spun me in axes.
    (You’ll be there in a minute, you say.)

    I lead your followers past bagel shops, hookah bars, offlicence glory,
    Cops prowling, the becoming dinosaur of the overhead rail, the
    Bombed remains of
    Cheap vinyl, soggy crêpes, torn jeans, pillpoppers.
    I am a helicopter.

    ~~

    She streaks—

    Cityboys them fucked off.
    As I walked towards you, ma money in ma pocket, through
    Graffitishocked streets, colours
    Bled me with the damp of a morning star.

    Squatters them sclattered in the
    Dungeon of a broken house, peeled windows.
    Some paint on scorpio bodies. Others hiss on cheap blow.
    My eyes trance in redn’green shapes.

    This poem was published in City State: New London Poetry (Penned in the Margins, 2010), which showcases the work of 27 London writers.