BaRking NatiVity 

 

We boy astrologers search for Venus 

every night; constellation gazers yeah! 

that’s us, eyeing up those council estate 

slappers laser backlit into dancefloor 

angels, ultraviolet delight round the 

back alley, skirt up left leg wrap; pant!  pant!  

shake down zip it up quick she’s that dun-in 

on Alcopops gonna puke: laters luv 

probs give yer a bell next week.  Another 

less than immaculate conception.  Mary-

Jane never heard from Joe again.  Sixteen 

years young with a kick brat inside ‘er, sits

all alone princess of Barking Towers;

high; twenty fourth floor of a planner’s wet 

dream complete with many en suit piss puddles 

in the stairwell, crack dens in the car park;

not there on the blueprint of a less than 

immaculate concept.  When kick brat want 

out Mary-Jane ain’t got a Scooby Doo,

the lifts are bust.  Calls for an ambulance;

no-go location, from clouds to dole-lands

a big drop destination.  Panic town.  

She calls her main man King Skag with two mates 

from East Ham and Forest Gate on the A13 

following tailgate lights east bearing gifts 

of chocolate vodka and pain relief

clambered into her flat in time to help 

with cooking hits and building bongs to make it 

flow for Mary-Jane and her boy she will 

call: Bastard Son Of Him (or Baz for short).

Joe’s been told a rumour some stupid slut’s 

put the word out.  Yeah ‘e remembers ‘er 

alright ‘cos she was so sick and also 

the rot she gave his dick so ‘e’s keen to 

put a stop to being bad-mouthed by a 

mare of a one night stand, headed off for 

Barking station when his mate said; “Hey Joe,

where you going with that gun in yer hand?”

© 2007  P.A.Levy

First published by Drylands  2015