Get real
Suburbia the filth, the filch
We were uptight rich Burgess, and we were going down.
"Mum! Dad!" I dropped my school bag on the pointy steps by the sofa "Anyone home?" No answer and I kicked the front door closed. I would sigh and get in, most times they were away working, and this was quite a change. They both found a jobs in some companies across the city. A friend of dad got them all settled. I had heard them laugh about it: how even down there, they could always pull the string. Every morning at 7 morning, Antoniette would hit me a ride down to Beckenham, we had sold all the cars, and bought a Ford Anglia. To dad this was one of the lowest steps under.
Several Numbers of the daily news were stacked on the book shell. I don't know why but since the classes had switched both of my parents read the papers, and watched the news with certain ambition and urgency. I don't know why but I could hazard a guess and say they were hopping some one would put them back on their place. Upper class...
I had some music zines under my bed. If mom would have found them, oh boy! I would have been fried. In the whole month we had been habitating there I had received not a Penny, my savings were diminishing and the cheer frustration of not having my stuff was wrapping my adolescent mind in a whim.
I settled my arse on that intrusive wide couch, planning to stay from five to nine in that place. The remote control in my hand, the newspaper resting in my lap, black and white sheets presenting a raising fire, a fire that was calling me, but it was 1975.
Turn on the telly, and click the buttons for a quart or two, the heat was fading into the authum, there weren't much trees or park around, but you can always tell. The rain shifts its direction and hits your face, fall is a strange time in London. As the winter came, everyone felt the flames coming out.
The war in Vietnam was over, U.K. was not fighting battles far away, but the war was drenching from inside.
The headlines spoke clear "Spaghetti House Siege", "London Hilton Bombed", "Green Park tube station burst" The media was bashing the immigrants, bashing both Irish and Black people. Mom would call them "filth", Dads expression was far more cruel "Go straight to hell back to your land". Suburbia treated them as rubbish.
I took a glimpse out the window the day was ok, not the summer sweat coming down your skin, or the fall zephyr cutting of your warmth. No one was home, and no one would arrive anytime soon so why not?
I was easy on the surface, but constantly belt up. I wanted a record player since I've listened to the "Stooges". Antoniette kept hers, but I could not play my music on it. Hell I couldn't show them my records. On my other days I would have thought a record player bugger all, but now I really wanted one.
I exit the gaff to meet a restrained sun. The dull blocks went on and on, I was still wearing Will's jacket, and when none of my parents were around I would mess up my hair, and I was doing a new thing on my pants, ripping the knees, and digging holes in. I wasn't so beastly to wear them always, but I was a blast.
London's Suburbia is grey and all in place. I couldn't stand it, but south London was jolly shambolic. The constructions and factories were on left right and center. The south was constantly changing, and I was going under, you can follow Windmill and then take St. James Rd 'til Hogarth Crescent, find Wellesley's Road and going down through the Road you get to an old supermarket, at least in those days. All those streets might mean nothing to an outsider, but I grew up there. Each streets is a symbol when you walk through them almost every night and day.
The super market hold nothing special, it was just a massive store, fill with useless products. Everything piled, labeled and meaningless. It really meant no shit to me.
That peculiar day I was pissed by the abnormality of my surroundings, by my youth, by the fire down London.
I was staring at the place, white walls, and old cars parked around, a lorry with merchandise rested on the gates of the back.
The air was fresh, it smelled like mud, it felt like rain. The bleak skies were over boring the city. The nearby were zipping up their sacks, and jackets, pulling umbrellas to the wind, but the air was sort of hot. An atmosphere hard to feel, hard to read, hard to describe.
Maybe it was the atmosphere so dense, everything felt heavy on those days, and there were two guys unloading boxes of various products, and there it was, laying on the lorry's ramp. The guys went chatting, they were clearly not stylished, one of them had a rare accent, red haired. Their clothes baggy and dirty.
They surrounded the gate, both of them caring a box together, and crossing the road, right ahead of me, there was what I desired.
No one saw me, and when I stroked the wood and the black plastic, the needle in perfect state. I had no bocines, but how could it matter?
I had never took anything in that way, and when my arms raised it in front of me, all my senses wringed out. Anyone could catch me, and I'll be right into the Majesty's pleasure, but there was no choice. At least when I heard them at the edge of the truck.
I was not experienced and all I could think was "Leg it!" and boy I did. My hurried steps must have warned them.
"Come here kiddo!" When you hear a thing like that, there are two paths, either you freeze or you run for your life.
"She has a record player!" The streets were not so Au fait to me, and I couldn't know where to hide, so I just ran. Ran through roads, avenues, and boulevards. The streets were wide, and long. They were two and older.
The grey roads came one after one, and the drops from the sky came falling through urban scene.
The record player tight against my side, burning my heart away, my breath was almost disappearing. I had never ran that way and adrenaline made me go for it. The filch...
The filch would define a lot of me, and Suburbia was a place to robe from the street, to robe from the blocks, and garages...
And it was my first filch, the way to become Suburbia's filth.
***********************************************************************
no comment, no update
"Mum! Dad!" I dropped my school bag on the pointy steps by the sofa "Anyone home?" No answer and I kicked the front door closed. I would sigh and get in, most times they were away working, and this was quite a change. They both found a jobs in some companies across the city. A friend of dad got them all settled. I had heard them laugh about it: how even down there, they could always pull the string. Every morning at 7 morning, Antoniette would hit me a ride down to Beckenham, we had sold all the cars, and bought a Ford Anglia. To dad this was one of the lowest steps under.
Several Numbers of the daily news were stacked on the book shell. I don't know why but since the classes had switched both of my parents read the papers, and watched the news with certain ambition and urgency. I don't know why but I could hazard a guess and say they were hopping some one would put them back on their place. Upper class...
I had some music zines under my bed. If mom would have found them, oh boy! I would have been fried. In the whole month we had been habitating there I had received not a Penny, my savings were diminishing and the cheer frustration of not having my stuff was wrapping my adolescent mind in a whim.
I settled my arse on that intrusive wide couch, planning to stay from five to nine in that place. The remote control in my hand, the newspaper resting in my lap, black and white sheets presenting a raising fire, a fire that was calling me, but it was 1975.
Turn on the telly, and click the buttons for a quart or two, the heat was fading into the authum, there weren't much trees or park around, but you can always tell. The rain shifts its direction and hits your face, fall is a strange time in London. As the winter came, everyone felt the flames coming out.
The war in Vietnam was over, U.K. was not fighting battles far away, but the war was drenching from inside.
The headlines spoke clear "Spaghetti House Siege", "London Hilton Bombed", "Green Park tube station burst" The media was bashing the immigrants, bashing both Irish and Black people. Mom would call them "filth", Dads expression was far more cruel "Go straight to hell back to your land". Suburbia treated them as rubbish.
I took a glimpse out the window the day was ok, not the summer sweat coming down your skin, or the fall zephyr cutting of your warmth. No one was home, and no one would arrive anytime soon so why not?
I was easy on the surface, but constantly belt up. I wanted a record player since I've listened to the "Stooges". Antoniette kept hers, but I could not play my music on it. Hell I couldn't show them my records. On my other days I would have thought a record player bugger all, but now I really wanted one.
I exit the gaff to meet a restrained sun. The dull blocks went on and on, I was still wearing Will's jacket, and when none of my parents were around I would mess up my hair, and I was doing a new thing on my pants, ripping the knees, and digging holes in. I wasn't so beastly to wear them always, but I was a blast.
London's Suburbia is grey and all in place. I couldn't stand it, but south London was jolly shambolic. The constructions and factories were on left right and center. The south was constantly changing, and I was going under, you can follow Windmill and then take St. James Rd 'til Hogarth Crescent, find Wellesley's Road and going down through the Road you get to an old supermarket, at least in those days. All those streets might mean nothing to an outsider, but I grew up there. Each streets is a symbol when you walk through them almost every night and day.
The super market hold nothing special, it was just a massive store, fill with useless products. Everything piled, labeled and meaningless. It really meant no shit to me.
That peculiar day I was pissed by the abnormality of my surroundings, by my youth, by the fire down London.
I was staring at the place, white walls, and old cars parked around, a lorry with merchandise rested on the gates of the back.
The air was fresh, it smelled like mud, it felt like rain. The bleak skies were over boring the city. The nearby were zipping up their sacks, and jackets, pulling umbrellas to the wind, but the air was sort of hot. An atmosphere hard to feel, hard to read, hard to describe.
Maybe it was the atmosphere so dense, everything felt heavy on those days, and there were two guys unloading boxes of various products, and there it was, laying on the lorry's ramp. The guys went chatting, they were clearly not stylished, one of them had a rare accent, red haired. Their clothes baggy and dirty.
They surrounded the gate, both of them caring a box together, and crossing the road, right ahead of me, there was what I desired.
No one saw me, and when I stroked the wood and the black plastic, the needle in perfect state. I had no bocines, but how could it matter?
I had never took anything in that way, and when my arms raised it in front of me, all my senses wringed out. Anyone could catch me, and I'll be right into the Majesty's pleasure, but there was no choice. At least when I heard them at the edge of the truck.
I was not experienced and all I could think was "Leg it!" and boy I did. My hurried steps must have warned them.
"Come here kiddo!" When you hear a thing like that, there are two paths, either you freeze or you run for your life.
"She has a record player!" The streets were not so Au fait to me, and I couldn't know where to hide, so I just ran. Ran through roads, avenues, and boulevards. The streets were wide, and long. They were two and older.
The grey roads came one after one, and the drops from the sky came falling through urban scene.
The record player tight against my side, burning my heart away, my breath was almost disappearing. I had never ran that way and adrenaline made me go for it. The filch...
The filch would define a lot of me, and Suburbia was a place to robe from the street, to robe from the blocks, and garages...
And it was my first filch, the way to become Suburbia's filth.
***********************************************************************
no comment, no update