Footsteps,
Contemplative
Hollow.
Striking at the hungry night amid shattered bottles,
its no wonder they call it Shore DITCH,
but no jewels wash up on this abismal tide,
Just CRABS.
And so sideways we walk,
onward. downward, inward
to the neon yards,
the hot belched curry houses,
of 'Brick Lane'
to be filled with shit,
the prefered condition
of 2013.
Past shrugging cliques of displaced yutes
Who chew their faces old,
before retiring to their hovels
dubstep
Grime
Towie
Death
Big Brother is watching them
and they are watching it.
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