Where the Wildings @?
“May I please I get a return to the end of the high street ” The line which had become my lucid chorus to the bus drivers each morning.
An eventual broken record.
In London, my ‘Oyster’ tells the driver all and nothing. Through Kendal Avenue and beyond I am circled by rurality and farmlands Taylor’s ‘Sad Beautiful Tragic’ in tune Perfectly paired to complement this actuality .
Fogged by faces of white middle class English folk
Larded by luxury cottage homes, secure within private roads and gated communities.
Perfectly quaint front lawns Colourful garden porches stretching an average of 30 metres beyond front doors Filled with curious spells My obsession for mewses rather loud As my addiction to daffodils in spring bloom.
“Could you make it extra hot, please?” I besiege for a flat white or skinny latte
Its the umpteenth time
I am handed a cup full of lukewarmth The luxury idea of Eurocentric regular chic cafés Of coffee and cake breaks reading a Vogue or Tatler magazine.
Of after-work drinks in a series of city bars flirting with male colleagues Is an overwhelmingly lure of faded pictures.
My infinite frustration wrapped in a town which produces local sausages by the Church’s Butchers Seemingly now has nothing more enticing than a bowl of boring cream of mushroom soup and a dense roll with hard butter
An absolute tornado of culinary disaster lacking colour or sensation.
Struck by a mundane realization Reminded of a single flimsy routine which once excited me.
The Office’s Friday Cake Club One of too many I caved in I now eat more Welsh cakes Manage a decreasing average weekly steps of 4k.
And store up more torn bus tickets Devoid of choice to avoid a drive past the Monday flea market Of fresh bread loaves, bright coloured scarves, tired traders, fresh flowers and neglected efforts Middle class Baby Boomers offer awkward stares to the negro girl. Who clearly stands out like a sore thumb Like the one I got when I visited Kilmarnock with my ex Or was it parts of Eastern Europe Yet 15 miles away lies London suburbs, West of town
I want to stare at you Whist you lead your horses back to the stables Maybe I could ride them perfectly to the fields Get lost in rhythm as I bounce my perky butt on the saddles My equestrian thoughts drift back to rhetoric wild lines
A compulsion to stand at the exit of the station each morning waiting for the 420 or 420A that never comes The crossing of deers more frequent than the arrival of buses.
I watch lovers, parents and children paste kisses on each other’s lips and cheeks
Followed by impulsive goodbyes as they drop off
Signaling that there is generally still love in the world. A code predominantly visible in stations and airports.
Young blondes, tanned orange as Mr America Plastered and baked in layers of make up An anxiety jets inside me The slightest smile could leave a crack on their faces They walk past in clumsy heels and cute Essex accents Flattered by ‘Jolie’ blown up lips An ode to “Botox gone wrong” Men in super tight skinny jeans.
The era of fashion headlined to stop circulation in their penises Enamored with perfectly groomed lives Gelled down hair And heavy cologne leaving a residual linger in the air like London’s air pollution.
The still and quiet at the top of Palmers and Stonards hill even on a typical Monday morning scares the fuck out of me I wonder if my proximity away from London is a metaphor for my mental retirement