Camden Night

The moon has lost its way,
Meandering home,
Like the drunkard it is.

Pale outlaws wait
By Camden tube.
At bay in restless pubs,
Prophets ignore the hour.

On Camden Road, you can hear
Old men in bedsits
Berating the night.

The canal, which their ancestors dug,
Glints oddly, as if it understood:
Despair is the city’s fate,

Its heart of clay,
Beating back generations.

Riot On

They’ve been rioting for centuries,

Though no one listens;

Britannia has gone to sleep.

Looting is the new shopping,

Tonight, at least.

A city, for once, united

To get what it can take.

This nation of shoplifters,

Napoleon might have said,

Where even those who’ve made it

Are on the make:

While London is burning
At the stake.