The London Transport System - An unofficially personified guide..

The London Transport System - An unofficially personified guide..

blotched red all over his cheeks, a slow mover through the rain
jolly but wide, and defiantly not wide eyed
He needs his own lane as he struggles from groin pain
deep breaths each step, 'I need my Asthma Pump' he sigh'd.

Shoulder THUDS into an oncoming skinny student's head
flabbergasted he turns apologetically & turns another shade of red
droopy eyed, a manly strut.  Semi-Conscious of his man-boobs.
lunch box filled, pain au chocolat, bacon sandwich and frubes.


has a break at every opportunity, snack or kit kat
winding out any built up constipation
consistently trying to maintain concentration
constrained by time, his bowel movements crave emancipation.


TOP TIP: hustling, bustling city, sirens tryna catch loony tunes on the loose
If you see the police, it's obligatory to warn-a-brother. 


His name's Slick but he's always under going works and improvement,
he does his shxt underground, and his lines are always on movement,
in his dirty, rat infested world, under 18's go 50% off..
as long as they provide I.D, or oyster's...
Slick leads a gang across London nicknamed 'TFL' - TIGHT FINING LOW-LIVES.. 
enter at your own peril.


jump Slick and his watchmen will chase you
or shut-down operations to financially castrate you
escalating dangers for the average buyer
Slick's TFL have CCTV everywhere, 
with every step tracked.


customers come from far and wide to ride the train of many colours
metaphorically speaking, getting high from Highgate to Gants Hill
'Mind the Gap.' - Slick's catchphrase for life, repeated regularly
because some fall to suicide causing great distress and delay to Slick's operations.


some pay a weekly or monthly fee for Slick's services, 
like prophylaxis or preventative medicinal measure which turns out to be a scam
*cough* swine flu.
N.B  racist ham roam the roads and may stop and search.


bulging eyes, weaving in and out, and a watermelon shaped head
shouting behind the blotched fat man in front like a hammerhead tormenting a fat seal 
stinging rhyming cockney and selling fish, he specializes in Eel.
jelly like facial structure, a big black stand dominating the central streets with his fishy'ness...

his antithesis, this city banker or w@nkxr as he calls him walks past
abusing suits who clog up the streets with pollution
"we don't need bogus ass's taking bonuses
It's like the sun resolves around Uranus, 
stick this fish where the sun don't shine."

having finished his tirade, he served others
free from the congested charging of others
other fishermen with big black stands and watermelon heads are like his brothers

By Zain
@Zainthepoet

Invasion

that long awaited disdain 
which exchanged jealousy for pride
and cast off the unfortunate
persuasion of an anger
discarding the age old tradition
of its foremothers in an attempt
to outdo its betters
had arrived.
the urgency of the current
emergency was lost on it.
purging the florid joy of which 
the atmosphere boasted
was its main priority.
interiority is not to be found
therefore in this speech here.
sensing its own inferiority
in its effort to terminate
the bliss and delight in its wake
condensing the serenity
and requesting for support
that long awaited disdain
retreated disturbed by 
the probable possibility
of a putrid checkmate stalemate.
soon joined by an
unmistakeable misfortune
who held a rather fair disposition
and equally followed by a
constipated fear
whose countenance was disrupted
disdain felt its own sense
of discerning pleasure
which was in essence
disgusted discontent.
at the front, the derobed, devested
truth soothes the Bestiality
of all sides
into submission.
fury runs around looking
for someone to blame.
problems, real problems were 
ignored. 
ignorance had prospered.
it was too late to turn back
the flow of despair
tranquillity runs around looking
for someone to blame.
once acclaimed, twice shamed
that long awaited disdain.





by Comfort Fabian Nwabia, a poet, playwright and actress and part of the youth poetry collective Words Apart.


VIDEO COMING SOON! 

My Country

How many lives were lost?

The ground bled red

With innocent blood

Slave masters, governors even king and queens

Orchestrating mass murder in their serene scenes

Imagine a mother,

wife and daughter’s cries of pain and frustration

Over bloody wars fought for the freedom of a nation

But not just on the battlefield politically as well

The appearance of this land epitomises hell

so the urge to progress independently

and become a country that can stand on its own

I speak critically for those who died before me

Their injustice were never told only

Because of an unimaginable tyranny

Trying to take one people’s hope to be free

I can never know

How many lives were lost?

The ground bled red

With innocent blood

I refuse to shun

The unimaginable truth

That whilst innocent people where being slaughtered

It made the wicked more financially supported

National heroes tried to defy this

And some executed in the process:

Samuel Sharpe, George William Gordon and Paul Bogle

All were men born in slavery and are notably noble

Who contributed to its abolishment as a whole

Where their stories and their role will forever be known

Den ova to de wuman, de Obeah wuman known as Nanny,

She herself freed over 800 slaves

her ferocious Maroons, feared by the British for what they displayed

they were untamed lions strong as mount Zion

whilst Marcus Garvey renown as he fought to outline

The abuse of Africans at the time

Norman Manley and Sir Alexander Bustamente

Involved in the struggle against colonial rule

Fought using their political tools

Took advantage of an empire going downhill

U see dem yout mi a talk bout

Mi av’ nuf respect fi dem cause

fe dem role in a de liberation of a country

that belongs to me

I will never know

How many lives were lost?

That turned the ground red

With innocent blood

Can warfare be used to release the oppressed into peace?

This dilemma we discuss on the news and the street

But the truth I believe is not in what we perceive

but in what we do

Like heroes in Jamaica did for me and you.

By Tajhame 'TJ" Jackson a poet, playwright and actor

Tajhame spent his childhood in Kingston, Jamaica until the age of 9 when he moved to North London. This poem was inspired by Jamaican history and his experiences there.

A clip of TJ performing this poem will appear on the blog soon!

Desperation

When the doors close in you feel trapped, unable to breathe.
The most spacious place in the world, yet your heart is being crushed.
The taste of salt streams down your face insistently, unwittingly, fittingly. Tears!
Tears.
Strange how they can embody happiness yet represent heartache and turmoil. Desperation.

To be free without constraints. Who are you? Who am i? Who are they?
To break free?
To be the causation of shattered expectations and disappointment.

Oh to break free.
Oh to be me.

By Zena B, a new and very skilled poet!

Every inch of me is screaming for violence

Every inch of me is screaming for violence
Fists clenched and fire flowing bitter anxiety
I wana punch kick and wrestle
Blistered bloody knuckle
Beat my knuckles
Pound some flesh

But I don't wana hurt anybody
Least not myself
I want to fight this world and put it in its place
Yet I can't even seem to fight myself
And its myself that beats me down
My own rusty halo is what cuts me
I can't be good
Even though its who I am
I still hold on to the evil that makes me weak
I'm not who I used to be
Nor am I strong enough to be whom I want to be
I'm stuck somewhere in between
A place where there is no light
The darkest place I could ever be
And I'm about to lose this fight

Why do I cause myself to suffer in this life
Only to burn in hell?

By Adil Hossenally

Wedding Ring.

I see this lady wearing a wedding ring
I smile, close my eyes and dream

I feel the feeling of being married
Of coming home to you, that excitement

Emotions of our wedding day
The knowing that I've done right
I picture myself dancing and holding you
The comfort of being close without hesitation, fear nor regret

But the pictures I paint aren't ones of images
No, the simple thought and faith of my dreams coming true are simpler yet so much more complex

Who you are I don't know, but I pray for you each day

I pray for us

And as I smile I feel gods hand calming my impatient impertinent wanting
Reassuring me of the future

When I find you I know you'll be hesitant
For that is the nature of who you are
But I have faith, god knows my dreams, my desires, my prayers, my everything and all other things.

So I ask of my lord that I may be blessed with patience

Until the day we dance
The day we smile
The day we fight
The day we cry
The day we live
The day we become we...

Until then I trust in Him

By Adil Hossenally

Inspiration

I once thought of inspiration as an emotion.

Guidance of creativity from another reality.

The whispers of an unseen spirit.

When words spill poison,

spread disease and utter confusion.

Is it the unseen dark shadows of your mind

that your heart,

the chamber of emotions,

container of your soul,

is listening to?

Whereas when at peace,

and smooth, soft, swift, sympathetic words swirl into being.

Who gifts you with those?

When the heart aches and the grey clouds fill the horizon,

is it only perception that causes painful suffering?

For behind every grey cloud is there not a blue sky?

How can your eyes see truth when the heart is veiled by darkness?

Alhamdulil'ah. My Lord has lifted that burden.

Can you now not see that you are blessed?

By Adil Hossenally.

Panic

What danger lurks within emotions of the human heart...

So fragile, so easy to pull apart

These profound emotions find no rest

They Pulsate mercilessly against the chest

Disturbing the sleep with their rhythmic blows

Flooding the mind with thoughts overflowed

They reside in the heart, to the world,unknown

Emotionally overpopulated chamber, ready to implode

No more escape through imaginary seduction

Reality is here to devastate your fictitious conception

Mental stability is now in critical condition.

Breathe.

By Zibz Hilwa, Talented Poet and Photographer

Rebellion I Am

Rebellion, I am.
Executioner of the orders.
Indiscriminately firing my words like fatal bullets,
Puncturing the rims of your authority;
inflicting you with agony.
Hear my gun shots loud and clear,
Let them echo in the caves of your ear.

I carry with me an intense heat
Burning like a fire;
fueling this rebellious desire.
The sparks entice me,
with their luminous glow.
The blaze ignites upon your every attempt of control.

I oppose you with a passion
A passion so dire;
It tenses my muscles,
protrudes my veins,
blurs my sight,
heaves my emotions;
for I am only capable of frustration in the face of hopelessness.

They regard it a loss of sanity-

this rebellion,
rebellion I am.

By the talented photographer and poet Zibz Hilwa

'The Yob'

'The Yob'

The 'White boy', shaved head, leaning on the wall,
Can’t cry, can’t smile, life for him is dead.
Tall towers engulf his world, opportunities are far,
His life is summed up by the cut above is lip,
Etched on his soul, lies another scar

Beat down before, not now he says,
‘I got myself a knife’
So often he comes back in a daze
Friday was high day and they would blaze

witnessed father beat her black and blue,
he thought if she wasn't my mother I would beat her too.

aspirations were existent but they were stamped out even through resistance
wrote a short story through his teacher's insistence
but it wasn't published because no one persisted.

This emotional function is stained, gone black,
‘I never been a boy, I never existed’
He mumbles, his life is as evil as twisted,
Now spends his days, getting high on crack
Ignorant and angry, there is no way back.

His deep blue eyes swallow hope,
And the blade in his hand shouts insecurity,
As the fumes in his fag make him choke,
Labelled a failure, teachers gave up,
His body is corrupt, he has had enough,

Lying their mindless, just like before,
But blood dominates as he is no more,
For the sorrow of it all,
No one really cares,
‘He’s vulgar, racist, he shouts, he swears,

So there he rots labelled ‘The Yob’
As deep in the estate, his mother starts to sob.

For the Innocent Victims of War

They call it democracy
But in reality it's just contradictions and hypocrisy
Hiding behind their protective veils
Goverment and money as their shields
Point their finger at innocent nations
Then sell to them their destructive creations
They create an international police force
Whilst claiming to start legitimate wars
They say their just creating a peaceful world
Then make weapons more dangerous, why?
To increase their worth
They fell threatened when a country makes progress
Then decide it's elimination in their prejudice congress
Arrogant viewpoints- their supreme opinions
At their command deaths of thousands of civilians
They initiated the terrorist colony
Started off all the killing, pain and agony
Yet they invade other nations
Accusing them of their own violations
They fund dictators and form a strong alliance
Then feel threatened when the dictator becomes defiant
To maintain power and avoid deviation
They invent a war on terror..A great fabrication
Claiming to be saviours they come with their artillery
Armed to their teeth killing relentlessly
They feel free to avenge the death of their loved ones
Yet it's a crime for us to protect our homeland?
If they really are fighting terror like they said
Then their guns should be pointing at their own heads

By Fatema Khatun

Here I stand

Here I stand,
Tall and strong in my occupation

Here I stand,
In the shadow of the strong and tall,

Yet I am stronger
I am deeper,
I am love,
I am no heart of stone,
And, in time
I will sow a thousand doves,
That will spread their wings,
And break this stone oppressor,
From its very foundations,

Do not mistake me,
Simply for a frail old thing,
For I was here before you,
Am here with you,
And shall be here long after you have gone..

Even tho you may try to slay me
My life comes from within,
the very earth under your feet.

Listen
My heart beats freedom.

By DJ Steaz

...................................................................................

'This poem was inspired initially by the photograph, and also the experiences I have had and people I have met throughout my life, combined with my journey and experience in Palestine ...an expression of my feelings and thoughts which manifested in these words..the poem is kind of about the Olive tree..but it's really more profound than that..kind of regarding human perseverance, strength, passion, peace, truth and love' DJ Steaz...

This poem was inspired by the experiences I have had and people I have met throughout my life.
Here is a link for the photographers original work:
http://media.photobucket.com/image/olive_tree_palestine/mainstreet99/bethlehemwall1.jpg?o=1

"I believe"

"I believe" by Riyaz Mangia


I believe that men should lower their gaze and maintain their modesty,
I believe that women should cover themselves up and dress properly,
I believe in wisdom generosity and piety,
I believe in freedom of speech and equality.
I believe in honesty and loyalty and neglect the ideology of pride and royalty.


These lyrics are real coz they come straight from the heart I take lyricism a privilege and I consider it as an art,
I believe Martin Luther King when he said "I have a dream",
I believe that we will be victorious like the days of the great sultan salahudeen,
I believe that men and women should look at the heart and soul,
rather than the outer appearance from head to toe,
I believe that the political and legal system in which the world operates around will eventually break,
I believe that people in this world are fake,
I believe that some people are real and see through the bull**** and the lies,
I believe the angels take our prayers to the almighty in the heavenly skies,

I believe that one should stay pure,
I believe for every disease there is a cure,
I believe that the disabled and the terminally ill are already in paradise,
I believe in heaven and hell and the after life.
I believe that woman's heart should make you smile,
I believe that women shouldn't take there beauty as an advantage,
And I believe people shouldn't take compliments for granted,
I believe a man shouldn't lay a finger on his woman,
And I believe that she shouldn't provoke him,
I believe married men shouldn't take advantage of young girls,
I believe that punishment will befall them in this world
I believe that women should be treated like queens by their husband,
I believe that men should be treated like kings by their wife,
I believe that you shouldn't have a vision of how you want to live your life.

I believe in freedom and peace will come to palestine,
I believe this system we will eventually defeat,
I believe that if we believe we can achieve,
If we've achieved then its all coz we've believed,
So all u gotta so is just believe, because I believe.

by Riyaz Mangia aka Poet Razette

The Story of Sara... in the heart of Afghanistan

Sara was going to scream in something more powerful and potent then pain.
Then she experienced a dream, lost consciousness, the cousin of death, call it what you will.

In this lost land she sat there still,
Writing, only seven about an Afghan princess,
Her own life, ravaged by incest,
But she still felt blessed to see the fruit blossom

Poor mother was still serving a life’s debt
Time dictated by war, post soviet,
Pre-Taliban, but still times were rough
Cursed with tragic optimism, still it was tough

Still Sara played everyday,
Climbing tree’s whilst father was out fishing
The clouds were mountains
And the shooting stars were for wishing

One odd, dark day,
Quite cold for Kandahar,
An old bearded man was seen from afar
As he arrived it looked like the death of laughter

His skin looked wrinkled, eyes were sinister,
But to the people he was the village minister
Ordering the immediate circumcision,
Not male, female and related it to religion

A false pretence, a sheer fallacy
But know one dared say it in public you see
Men like the minister had severe insecurities
He had constant power deficiency

The old man’s logic was law,
But in private many questioned what for?
Tribal and cultural heritage was at the core
Along with its justification which went like this:

“If you wrong the wrongdoers
Punishing you is just
And if he rapes you,
He has a right to fulfil his lust”

Sara was scared, but stepped up with courage
Mother was scared too but father too impoverished
A shooting star came and Sara wished
Staring at the mountainous clouds
But her soul felt finished.

The incision was made,
But it took too long
So much agony so her mother sang Sara a song
Everything so unnatural, all of it so wrong

Suddenly life’s cruel twists came to be
Young, beautiful Sara was never free
So much blood, 7 years since her birth
Young sweet Sara returned to the earth.


Sara didn’t wake up.


http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2010/jul/25/female-circumcision-children-british-law