The Ghost Of Milton Friedman Talks Disaster Capitalism In A Burning Hackney Diner

The smashed front window
is like a new mouth on the high street -

a Ginsbergian howl that vomits
shopping trolleys ablaze.

Inside, frosted eyes
and peppergum shards

of fractured glass
crackle and hiss

in the heated atmosphere
of this riotous night.

Paddy, Zoltan, Katie
and Apple -

the customers fled
with their mouths full

as madness swept
the street like a prophetic broom.

Now only Milton remains
at a perspex table for one

eating crisps and
a prawn sandwich -

an old nobel ghost
talking disaster capitalism

with Margaret, his
imaginary friend.

A petrol bomb
scents the night air;

riot brigade no. 5 (mayor's division)
tool up, assemble and charge.

Margaret (not at her best these days),
parched and scared,

assaults an ambulanceman
with her handbag

slugs an NHS blood spill kit
to quench her thirst.

Milton chews and chews
and shrugs -

spits prawn-shell
onto his plate at the memory.

He's frequented burnt-out
diners before

in Chicago, Rejkjavik,
Santiago (September, 1973).

Any moment now the flame-grilled door
will fall off its hinges

and a girl will appear
wearing slinky jheri curls

carrying shiny black shoes
liberated from Clarks.

She will be hungry. Confused.
She gave the feds what was coming.

Milton’s ghost will hold out
his hands and say: "Welcome

to paradise - take all
that I have."