Split Ends

So here's an extract of a poem I wrote for a workshop recently... A few links to show some of my trains of thought. Hoping to work some more on it over the next couple of weeks:

I was manufactured far beyond

the Bow bells and past the crease

in the Thames where Eastenders credits

roll, past sausage roll sandwiches and saltfish fritters

foil-wrapped and wolfed down on the District

line like this mile ended way too soon.

I grew up in the Far East

in a place where we learnt to curse Hindi

at our teachers while threading earphones through

our Ill-afforded sleeves pulsing with dancehall CHOOONs!  

The markets raised me from the back of white vans

and crooked billets with dog tracks barking their last orders

and car plants shrinking its workers to size.

I grew up at the fold of the London A-Z

in a bus depot where aspiration terminates or

its route begins depending

on which Burberry hat

you cover your headaches with.

 

I rose up on the backs

of cream net-curtains and terraced dreams

and Jafaican lingo:

lay it on, lay it on, lay it on, baby.

But my ends are split like

V signs created in playgrounds

where Sahir and Shawn and Simeon

shuffle cards behind the desk

and we all support Arsenal or Tottenham

unless we like the sound of loser

pushing on our chests.

They are split like

the bifurcated sources of the Northern line like

the edge where my tongue trips lazily over vowels

and my throat skips Ts like they were swinging rope.