The Ikon.

You took the 50 million pound weekly giro,
from the anorexic girl that you put in,
the freezing flat not fit for human habitation,
thought yourself clever, classless and free,
still thieves as far as I can see.

You put the subsidized art from somewhere else,
and the handsome boys still come nowhere near you,
your cold tasteless coffee,
no eggs, beans and chips,
for the poor artist,
who has more visitors in a month,
than you get in a year.

The swallows come back,
as golden summer days,
the community of May,
a cheap plastic mac.

I remember when every fifth house in Ladbroke Grove was squatted,
but then the money piled up,
slowly as cancer,
and turned all the wild city flowers
into white powder.

~