Zooming onto a black and white pointillist poster

Within the barriers of a shop window

Our sight describes a young man with a lean face

A warm embrace,

And an ever so slight smile,

This is matched with a slanted,

But relaxed positioning.

His eyes are genuine eyes and his chin is sturdy.

 

The vertical stripes on his jumper,

Point beyond his riot shield,

Composed of a material like mirror – of a monolith.

Big chunky monkey head his mates used to call him

Now he sees ape-like shapes loom, reflect and slink off him.

In his setup and ageless image, we see,

Tropical leaves poised around as if looming towards his heart

Connecting to the very beat of its chested vibes

Gyrating against his riot shield

A self-taught battle within

These herbs wanna be the natural thing to

Give interactive visions beyond a road’s whose end is met with death,

No transition from boys to men here.

 

Look closely at this picture.

Your minds remembered to frame a young happy boy

But I see an affected picture

Tear gas unleashed into the atmosphere

Attacking against this riot shield

And breaking all barriers.

 

We begin to see streets united in an infestation

Of any and every creed under the sun

For a sweeping act, and the weeping effect it would give to

‘the man’.

… Every shop was looted

 

All we hear is noise

Undisciplined boys

 

Big man Mandingo

Flipped over waste side

Wasteman that’s what they call him

And he laps up the title

The street faucet goes off

And out springs winter-cold water

Like that twisted part of hell they send residents to when they complain it’s too hot

Well Folks there be devils

Out here

But whose story will you believe?

Mine or the police’s?

 

The Sun clears up

 

This is just a shop window

And I’m just a reporter

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London riots Poems racism