:: Eversong ::

:: Tuesday, February 11, 2003 ::

Fried Chicken Street (Chris Turner)

Welcome, dear friend, to Fried Chicken Street,
Where nauseous chip fat fills the air,
And discarded paper bags blow across your feet,
Where schoolchildren with dyed peroxide hair
Discard soggy, mangled chewing gum on the ground,
And housewives gather scraps from skips,
While ill-trained animals bark all around,
Where Ford Cortinas play dangerous games of hit and miss.

Stay a while, dear friend, on Fried Chicken Street,
Come see our drunken local guides,
Whose children fight with mother for scraps of food to eat,
While doner kebabs slowly rot their festering insides.
Admire our much loved park,
With its broken swings and rusty roundabouts,
It's still busy - even after dark,
And you're sure to be made welcome by our raucous swaggering louts.

Do you like what you see, dear friend, on Fried Chicken Street?
Where suited huddles depart for the city every day,
Important, busy people they have to meet.
Returning late to their little semi - wishing it had gone away.
The old ones rarely come outside anymore,
Their curtains twitching all the time,
Kiddies putting fireworks through their door,
And coppers telling them not to whine.

Could you help us, dear friend, on Fried Chicken Street?
Could you save the baker's or the butcher's shop?
Or are we condemned to TV dinners and cheap pre-packed meat?
Where, my friend, will Fried Chicken Street stop?
Community centres with broken windows,
And the council admitting defeat,
Its people swept away like little minnows,
Life goes on, as ever, on Fried Chicken Street.

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This poem was inspired by thoughts of my home town of Bexleyheath in South East London. It was a sad, depressing little place - rife with crime, and hardly safe to walk around in at night. I hope I captured some of the essence of the place, it's sights, sounds and smells. I guess we all probably know at least one Fried Chicken Street. The title, curiously, comes from the KFC chain of restaurants...as I was walking home one night, I couldn't find a bin to put some rubbish in - it was all overflowing with junk from KFC, and the stuff was spilling out onto the streets. All I could smell was fried chicken everywhere, and gangs of youths were gathered in the entrance to the restaurant, like moths attracted to a candle. I hope I brought some of it to life for the reader.
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:: Plod 5:05 PM [+] ::
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