Why, hello there!

We’ve been away for a little while, fighting Brent council who are trying to knock down the Mothership, Willesden Green Library, and after that we had a little lie down and a cry. But we’re back for the long haul with a poem from resident rapscallion Lynsey Rose. You can also read Lynsey’s rather excitable TV blog Exitainment here as well as her poetry blog Extol. We won’t feature any from Extol here, though, because we like to give you something a little different here at the Green Press. Now stop mucking about, Lynsey, writing is a serious business… the floor’s yours.

London

In the city
post five-thirty

good-looking
young men in suits

loosen their ties and
their legs

In bars named after
chemical elements

where the drinks
cost a tenner a go.

And girls with
super-short skirts

and hair cut by
Japanese boys

in space age salons
with fish tanks for walls

buy high heels in
Covent Garden boutiques.

In Brent
my sliver of town

where a
one bedroom flat

costs the same as
a cottage in the country

diversity equals
an angry white face

and an angry black face
waiting for a bus.

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