The Western Gate

A.I. creating instant bland hits, but it’s ok to upload a poem, get it narrated, download, wack it in the DigitalAudioWorskation and add your influence. An online audio diary.
It’s not the Beatles~ Day In the Life, More Five minutes in the Dawn break of London W10….

The Diary of The Curtain Twitcher

Aint been able to sleep cause the car outside had radio on all night.
Radio Three and wots more, bolero in my head skating like a dream, a nightmare instead.
Outside in my little patch of dirt, called a front garden, six bags full of twigs and old paint tins that the rubbish geezer wont take,
and the wheelie bins by the rundown blocks are full of nosey parkers and grassing snides, an I don’t want a flytipping letter if you don’t mind.
There’s no bird song much, cause the feral cats and the other manky rats keep taking the little fellas,… but each morning flocks of green cockatoos fly somewhere to London, to perch on a tree.
The magpies also out there,
I dont wanna look in case it’s a solitary bird,
one for sorrow and all that,
so I say,
as you do if you remembered old folk tales to say,
“Good Morning Mr Magpie, how’s the wife n kids.”,
and then fate, apparently,
lends a hand and stop the misery around.

The neigbour slams his door and skulks into his wreck of a car,
shotgun wedding,
got her up the duff,
she aint done a days work since whenever and in her house, floor to ceiling full of junk, newspapers and dead dehydrated mice,
and it aint nice with two kids now, maybe three.
She packed on the weight, with, just eat and deliveroo, every day.
Opposite live the rich sorts, dunno what they do, but amazon like their house, every day a package arrives, weighty, boxes, and the predators who scour the avenues looking for lazy drops, left, discarded, waiting to be robbed.
If I turn right outside, and walk along, it is littered with crack houses, and neglected streets, some covered in steel windows and bordered up doors,
and if I turn left and walk, its Tv celebrities, zed listers and to be fair some household names, but they look at their shoes in shame if you catch their eye,
cause they dont wanna die.
and maybe I look a bit dodgy with me boots and flying jacket, ready to half inch their wallet or some package from a doorstep owned by someone rich and out of place,
maybe they’ll upgrade their place,
move towards the celebrity quarter instead of the halfway house,
the crossroad between rich and deviant.

And the car outside, radio still on, got a sweepstake when the battery runs cold, some big fat geezer singing a song, some requiem mass and it fits the scene, no whistling birds just the chatter of magpies, the squawk of a flock of Cockatoos flying overhead.
The Scaffolders have arrived, and they bark and heckle and think everyone should hear their chatter. Their inane bawdy laughter clatter. the scaffolding Lorry blocking the road like an arrogant queue pusher.

And the car outside, radio still on, another song from the station played in lunatic asylums , radio Three, a lament, a funeral dirge, I wonder what ponce has died.
I wonder if a royal hung himself last night, for having a shag, freeloading crack, that he don’t have to marry, cause he’s rich and famous, and carries lots of influence.
Somewhere, somehow this whole scene is a contrived dance.
A picture show, a movie that makes sense somewhere.
it’s a matrix, a plan, but I cant see it .
Got distractions and aversions.
The little tempting pieces of bait.
The car outside just died. In silence now on the avenues outside, but the magpie flies, to another nest to pinch the eggs that Deliveroo didn’t bring but they said just eat.

Somewhere, somehow this whole scene is a contrived dance.
Aa picture show, a movie that makes sense somewhere.
it’s a matrix, a plan, but I cant see it .
Got distractions and aversions.
The little tempting pieces of bait.

There’s poetry in every vision, in every movement,.
somehow.
but I cant’s see it, with diversions, aversions.
I’m witnessing illusion.