I Live Over There - revision

[tectak]

Past houses where spouses are spitting at children
and satellite dishes are marks of distinction;
where villainous vermin shadow-box curtains
and takeaway cartons bespatter the gardens;
where nobody bothers to pick up the dog shit
while stood on the pavement twittering gossip
and stubbing their ciggies on steps without polish,
deporting the darkies and ordering curries
and voting for parties that all sound like Tories
while falling asleep to the new bedtime stories. It would be churlish to pick away at the rhythm and matching content of this piece so I won't. It is just fine. What I am unhappy about is the the little gravelly bits that get in my shoe....I can bear them but soon the irritation will become too much. A little gravelly bit like " deporting the darkies". I know what it means but is that what we do? And do spouses (or mothers) spit at children....even metaphorically (or is it an obscure word use?)

Past bungalows greying, decaying and saggingCool image.....broken ridge truss.Very good!
where Cornelius Hawkins left himself hanging; ...but here we go again. I know of Cornelius Hawkins....has he hung himself?
the neighbours come round ‘cos the dog kept on yapping
at the rope in the loft from which he was dangling.
The TV left on but nothing worth watching.
I wonder what dogs make of men hung like washing?I have a real aversion to this stanza...I will meet you in Gerund Avenue and explain

Past knickers and needles and knives in the back
down the alley that leads to the railway track
where Harry the Alky in a flash of insight
had laid himself down between the train lines:
the train passed straight over and Harry survived,
some people just cannot do anything right.
Of course, Harry eventually choked on his vomit,
now drivers sound horns when approaching the crossing
as a warning of sorts to those bent on dying
and a curse to all others attempting a lie-in. This stanza reads as if once upon a time...there was a rhyme scheme. The End

Past the park that the council desire for allotments,
the football pitch now has but one set of goalposts.
Bureaucracy’s moved them to state its position:
the residents draw up another petition.
A perennial game of attack and defence
on cabbages, peas and a faded green bench
by the burial grounds where the dead cannot rest
but be shuffled around to make room for who’s next,
before the barb-wire surrounding the wood
that’s a small tuft of hair on a balding man’s head
that is soon to be shaven the signs indicate
for my local estate is a cancerous pate. A truly wonderful stanza.....this is just great. Imagery is high-res.

Oh, I do it disservice, I’m all bile and jaundice,
tomorrow the snow will have smoothed every surface: This makes the piece a little seasonal and I don't think you meant it to be so chronologically specific....the wide picture is a permanent one that snow would only serve to contrast. This fails for me. I would have thought that night time darkness would achieve the same effect as a cloaking device
the earth will resemble a different planet;
one I’m able to visit, if not quite inhabit.

Overall, too much to like and not enough to dislike BUT therein lies the danger. There is nothing I can tell you about the tidying up procedure because I would probably chuck out something that I needed the next day. As you can tell I liked it but....

Best,
tectak