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I suppose I like to write about what I read & see in my local area.I have quite a few teenage sons & they also come home with tales of fights & drunken nights
.Southend is lively there is no doubt about it & at any given time my poem below can & does happen here.I would love to put this poem to music or as the soundtrack to a film shot in the local area, maybe on the golden mile (well its not so much golden anymore since they took the lights away,more kind of the misty grey mile!) Anyway I hope you like the poem it goes down well as a live performance & is one of my favourites.As soon as I get a recorded version of it I shall post it up for all to hear,then you can tell me what you really think about it or not!
I shall be working on getting more live recordings of my work to post but I must say the competition is stiff & I am lagging behind by quite a few years but we all have to start somewhere dont we!
Also I want to know why Myspace have not got a poetry site where all the creative poets go to get low down & dirty,share tips on the best way to drink Absinthe & discuss the merits of a Shoreditch accent in these Kate Nash takes over the world days!! Ive got a blinding Essex accent myself much more traditional & contrary to popular belief very sexy!
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The British A.S.B.O Beat
Just as his plans all fitted neat & life smelt good & tasted sweet.
Along came the new century A.S.B.O beat,a sinister step to move his feet.
The ballroom it which he danced around,the seaside cotch of Southend town,where of late a political frown had come to stay & settle down.
On the faces in the places where the candy floss grows,
In the arcade watch the cascade of the gambling flow,
In casinos like albinos in some freak seaside show,
All dancing to the beat of the British A.S.B.O.
And then one night,the moon so bright,
the air smelling of sugard doughnuts,
as teenage toughnuts
numbed by alcohol fight.
Beneath arcade light the old bill sit tight
& foxtrot tango throughtout the night.
Meanwhile,scantly dressed ladies cat-fight in the daises,
Long legs like stems beneath petal hems,
revealing blossoms of thong,
as a twenty crowd strong
all screeching like seagulls
& egging them on,
As the high heel kicks in,tearing pink skin,nothing is heard
above the din of the A.S.B.O.
Just as the blade it missed his eye he knew he was too young to die
Especially outside the Chicken Fry
with pissed up punters passing by.
The violence which had chosen him,
had ghost train eyes & greasy skin,
Came up from London to return the scar,
revenge unravelled will travel far.
He's regreting what he's getting
because he knows its his fault,
It will stay in once its paid in
all the karma thats bought
Its the causes in the pauses
that you make when your caught
That colour the outcome
of the lesson thats taught......
Cherryl Scott.