Good Morning London

[Keith]

I enjoyed the imagery in the poem and I liked how it improved through the edits. Very good work. Makes me want to visit the city!

Edit 2 abu and Poe

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
A day of waste is crushed away
in the mouths of talking trucks.
Underground she groans awake,
coping well with screeching brakes
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Edit1 (thanks Tectac and Chris)

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Original

The scrub of nylon brushes
scratch the back of dirty streets,
outside the shops of sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste,
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte,
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn,
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

Hi aramsey, the comments always help the edit and I need the help as everything I write always reads perfectly brilliant to me Thanks for your comments. Best keith

---

I think the flow and pace of this is great. Some beautiful lines; "untold news gagged with string": it's very moving as London is in all it's history; you paint a picture of a city alive. Thanks for the read, Loretta




Edit 2 abu and Poe

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
A day of waste is crushed away
in the mouths of talking trucks.
Underground she groans awake,
coping well with screeching brakes
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Edit1 (thanks Tectac and Chris)

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Original

The scrub of nylon brushes
scratch the back of dirty streets,
outside the shops of sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste,
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte,
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn,
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

Sorry Loretta I had missed your post, thank you for you kind comments. Best Keith