Limbo Under the Westway

how we could carpet notting hill
how decorate the harrow road
with flock wallpaper, chintz and sheen
from maida hill to portobello green

barefoot, then, we would walk around
stroking our walls: beloved; pure
soft now, westway’s wild hushing stream
over the canal and portobello green

we’d need a f*ck off vacuum cleaner, though
for all the filth that penetrates our mighty rug
the spivs, whores, dealers, estate agents and toffs
i have no cage as strong to hold my hate
nor can i fly a plane, nor drive a car
and bare toed on this carpet, can’t run far
carpet burns chafe where i would vent my spleen
in pandemonic portobello green

i will embrace the whole of notting hill
with my great heart: mahatma of the street
while i hang sheeny curtains and paste flock
soft paisley carpet soothing my tired feet
a shuffling carnival of zimmered wraiths
shimmers to advance the afternoon
their prosthetics and callipers agleam
eschewing lourdes for portobello green

for what healing there is to be found
among the market stalls: this hallowed ground
via portobello: the green, a cornerstone
and lonely ladbroke grove, the temple wall
hear old calypso calling, fading where
an imam chants, a siren wails - the fear
joy of change: see how our carpet flies
the old world ever masked in some new guise
paradise still never far from kensal road
for many in st charles’, not near enough
some goyish eruv, henged with cords unseen
from maida hill, round portobello green

within the bounds, shamanic steely drum
damped by our sick stained carpet, go about
under milky westway and mother moon
a rainbow wends past portobello green

now it is time - the rushing pulse must slow
sticky blood must rest - the liquid sun
all revellers, tourists and even the stars
i have no sky as great to hold my love
nor can i fly as birds might, nor dissolve
into the tapestry the drummers wove
so sink with the sun under a velvet sheen
of summer bliss in portobello green