escher poetry — [Y]

travelling west
across the southern blight

i found myself thinking
if i ran a pub
(i never will)
if i ran a pub

there’d be poetry
and music
poetry more than most
in a small space
on a smaller stage
where once
were statues
of ladies dressed
for a gentleman’s gaze

another bar’d’ve
decor dedicated
to what was then
stunning technology
beautiful self–rising cars
(i’m biased)

but the bar
would be dedicated
to the factory
to the builders
to the production line
not just the produced

i’d call the pub
“friendly bombs”
i’d settle it
in slough

i don’t know what the town was like
in betjeman’s day
but i don’t think
it deserves
the anthem

although it should
rightly celebrate
its world fame
amongst the tourist literati
(the titterati*)
fake & faker

so voila
il sera ici

the fakest
of the fake

* In memory of Frankie Howerd