Beyond the low moan of clone-town commerce
And a High Street riddled with ribald rhyme
Lies a wonderful Wild West.
The clink of roman coins reverberate through time
To the cash registers of a Cappuccino bar.
Cultural cross-hatch expressed in fleeting shops
Whose memory remains imbedded in the pavement’s passage.
The art is as much a part of these streets as the fruit and veg cart
Which is also a part of the heart of the art.
If you collect faces this is a good place to lurk
In the shadows I have seen fear and hope
And at best a sudden hidden lust.
Everyday lives of the past woven into the walls by weavers.
Money builds walls between people, buys indifference and personal space
But nobody has a scent to their name in this place
So we all know the roots of the sadness in the eyes of each face.
On Little Rack Street flat-chested women torture midgets.
Taller men might favour Rack Close Lane
Taking care not to leave any refuge there
The Age of Aquarius is heralded from amid medieval churches
Life ordered between buildings
Do you think the rooks are saying ‘Do not disturb?’
Because it all seems to be in his bedroom
And we are merely intruders in this park.
Renegades of the graveyard.
Roman walls shade the history of slaughter/conquest
Now our daughters get slaughtered within the West Quarter
Past the stream lies the peace shop, peace sells but who’s buying?
How strange to see such a rare commodity
The visual speed dating of window-shopping
Research the old zones, scrub the stones
Etched emo-goth, tattoo your banana blue
The ancient elegance of Tucker’s Hall
Partially obscured by the presence of a Portaloo
In a musty interior everyone’s favourite granny
Once sold whips, chains of bondage – but now she is flats
Stairs that are blocked, locked memories forgotten in mortar
I have smelt death on Preston Street, sickly and sweet
Decaying on the floor of her flat, leaving only her cat and her name
The coffin entrance – out of use
The tattoo of a hand-made belt cuts deeper than 19 butchers
‘It’s like being scratched by kittens’ he said,
As he carved out my broken heart with his needle.
There’s no guts, no glory if you don’t take a Walkabout in the West Quarter
Climb success to the top of Fore Street
Step down to new heights
Funky junk shops with windows throwing beats to the streets
Like aching marching feet
The breeze played an empty larger can like the drums of a marching band
As ghosts lined the streets waiting to be pulled from their graves for a dance
Know about rave? Please come in.
Random acts of art are our inheritance
Last orders are called
The stargazers are now being served.
As one of the West Quarter poets this was a great opportunity to work with Exeter's own Bard in a great venue that could awaken the inner poet sleeping in almost anyone. The Spacex offers unique perspectives on art that should be celebrated, just as our street poem attempted to celebrate the gallery's location. I hope you enjoy it, from Marcus
ReplyDelete