Brockmoor
By Canonette
- 302 reads
Dog-end fifty pay shop town –
where are your briers and moors,
your dells, brocks and badgers?
Your pastoral place names mock you
and your inhabitants.
Living all a body; back to back,
mingle-mangled, on the estate,
in your pebble-dashed houses.
Rubbing along; chafing together,
like your spam mottled thighs;
which you’ll spread for a swig of 20-20,
down by the cut; glued off your tits,
Kwiksave carrier bag, no protection.
Cus you all share and share alike;
building your pleasure gardens
on the playing fields; then roaming
like brigands, necking home brew,
spittle tasting of lighter fuel.
Cantering off into traffic,
like one of the tinker’s hosses.
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Comments
I really liked this.
I really liked this. Makes the point so well.
'spread for swig' - for (a) swig?
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Grim theme but beautifully
Grim theme but beautifully put together. I remember walking to school in a different town but still seeing the empty special brew cans and used up glue bags scattered around. Great use of semi-colons!
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