16 worn white wheels stir against the churning concrete of
Oxford Street vibrating with the traffic lumbering at the lights and the wheels
whirl beneath their feet on a Saturday racing past me as I stumble to the
northern line with my bags of shopping that are already nearly dropping through
thinning orange bags about to burst apart like bubble gum and there’s a hum to
the boarders movements that I get lost in for a moment as the 4 ride on by black
jeans black shirts black boards black skies about tonight starting to drool
downtown as the young boarders vie for the crown of the Lost Boys to be placed
atop their feathered florescent heads and one’s sailing effortlessly on and on
through the crowds eating McCoy’s ready salted or maybe Monster Munch lifted
from a closing kiosk he was riding by and they’re crunching away between his
teeth as he looks on with a stealing grace and a smirk on his face and the Dead
Kennedys rave about the disgrace of a government well before his time in his
ears but still he appreciates the rhymes and the riff grift-gained headphones
brimming under his beanie. And there’s a priest in the distance saying
something in this instance with a failing sarcastic tail that’s lost in his
pious Priestly wail down the microphone.
“I live for me and everything is free if I want it to be”
Why doesn’t this prick just leave it alone and go back to
his home to sit on his thrown and pick through the collection plate again or go
to a young believer’s home to leave a stain on his altar boy robe after he’s
has a good probe.
Fucking Vatican scumbags.
I take another drag
of my fag and continue to marvel at the boarder riding on like nothing belongs
here but him his favourite song blaring loud enough for me to hear as his
rivals jeer at him to no avail the other skaters paling in comparison to the
boy pushing forward War Famine Death and Conquest foaming in his ears. He could listen to
this song forever and feel perfectly complete as long as he was able to compete
with the other 3 on the road who he’s goading as he grinds in front on
the hard top Jag dragging off a sheet of sleet grey paint that’s officially
silver and he gives them a glare and a finger to follow and the scarred car
flares spitting sparks until the last axle finishes leaving its mark and
returns to the tarmac rubble riding over the road works with a punk rock grace
perfectly out of place in these recession roads going nowhere but the boys
weave through the snares that have got us all snagged in their pay-day-loan shark
teeth put there by televised thieves you can spot between shows everyone knows
but no one cares and on we stare to get picked off in their sights blinded by their
lights we can't seem to resist when luck is low and there's no money to go around.
I feel so old and so stale even though I’m only as old as
the 4 in my Tom Ford suit thinking about how good the seasoned salmon I’ve just
bought will taste with a flute of fresh French bread and they ride on and on and
with a silent vibrance they live and I feel like I'm the walking dead like
everyone else on the street who’s eyes are greeted by the flowing shadows
keeping the wheels in motion shredding through the raging roads of urban ocean
with an endless ease.
We’re just cones for them to ride through kicking flips as
they jump skips and curbs still fighting for the throne I don’t think they’ve
got a home to go to but that doesn’t matter to them because they live for
moments like this their wheels skating over a collapsed tramp’s rank piss and
the girl to my right is telling her chauffeur about how badly Francis kisses but
he doesn’t care and the monster munch packet is dropped into a breeze and the
shimmering purple grazes my straining knees and this priest is still pleasing
the flock gathering around him in the ruins of what we tried to accrue Blairing greed bleeding through at last
making the city a zoo for the church’s propaganda crew to trail through like
sewage unfiltered unhalted consoling the masses and the iconoclasts clash with
their preaching but the feud’s pointless because they’ve won and the flock
minds are gone to religions ever-whirling storm much to my scorn. And the piss
hisses and spits into the rich girls face, and gets absorbed into the lace of
her Prada clutch and she starts screaming and the skaters continue to cut
through us all like razor blades trail blazing neon hair hazy in the street
lights and the fight’s drawing to a close as they round to Centre Point through
the quiet of Soho square where the he-shes toss the down low city boys that
secretly like their tom boys a little more boyish than most and the ghost boy
with white hair at the back breezes to the front his lead sealed in the clunk
and clatter of his wheels connecting to the pavement so out of place among the pasture
patters of the average pedestrian as they get back to Oxford street and the
rich girl’s now over the piss rambling about her equestrian skills to her
driver about how she used to ride her pony near where Berlusconi’s villa used
to be in Sicily.
“but that was before we went bust”
And then the boys fade from my gaze as I look to my side and
it becomes clear, I see her trying to hide her sheer jacket that’s several
years old and flaking, her shoulders shaking as the chauffeur reaches for her
shoulder but she shifts away and then he tries to lift her knock off skirt greasy
hand sifting up the fabric as the priest’s static stutters on but she brushes
him back and I see the black bags dragging his face down similar sacks around
the neon murmurs of her eyes nearly crying and I look to his right and see
another girl in a similar state standing there 4 streaks one red one white one
blue one green running through the black of her hair that sheens with filth and
this one stumbles and mumbles something about riding a horse that gets lost in
the pious crescendo of the priest’s preach where he’s teaching the flock to
spot and help those in need.
“now let’s repeat our creed”
“good is the plant we are the seed good is the plant we are
the seed good is the plant we are the seed”
And in the alley to the right the girl’s pleading as her
pimp beats her limp driving fist after fist with viper hisses from between his
rusty gold grills he beats her some more for bleeding on his new suit boots
from the other girl connecting knocking the girl’s nose out of place to gain
favour with her owner as the flock rant on and the chant rings out and I feel
like a loner in the chaos and I’m in shell shock as I see the skate rats knock
on the window of a Bentley limo and see the driver get out and loose the lock
for them and the clouting continues for the girl in the alley and the priest goes
on to tell us about Bartimaeus in a Valley near Jericho and above the beaten
girl now left alone to rot her wounds clotting but not fast enough I see an
advert for the giant merry-go-round at the Plaza that’s out of date and now I long
for the underground where I only have to hear the sounds of this place and
these people and this city.
“and the lord took pity on the man and let him see the world
for all that it was”
Because god’s a comedian.
“and he could see again and he weeped for joy”
And the Lost Boys seep back into their ways done for the day
done playing poor in the streets ready to kick back and put their feet up in
Chelsea with the rest of the rich and wealthy and this place feels unhealthy to
be in tonight my skin feels sleazy my thoughts are uneasy and I feel queasy and
I want the priest and the pimp and the boys and my sight to leave me so I can
be happy again and I begin running as the priest, now done, walks the ‘final
reduction’ shop-slums to spread the words that need to be heard when said by
him (apparently) and the girl manages to crawl to shelter from the hail bashing
against her bloodied pale skin under a tattered shop canapé that’s closing down
any day now and the heard still chase the priest cows tailing a cultural abattoir
their feet tracking across the slick earth of the meat works in his path to be
churned out through the grinder into a fine paste for the priest to feast upon
in exchange for the promise of eternal peace and the sights never cease to
shock me no matter how much I’m here and I just want to be free from this
disgraceful district. Not that it’s any better out there in the suburbs but at
least I’ve got a guy who can sell me some herbs to help let this all go by
before my eyes without crying as I watch people die and rot forced by fate to cruelly
keep breathing continuing to toss their lots to failing hands stealing their
money leaving them stranded and lost.
But I don't have to take these sights anymore tonight.
I make it to the tube and I take my seat and on the last
train out I flee from the sick of Oxford Street.
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