Once my town, my village. Crystal Fischetti

Once my town, my village. Crystal Fischetti

The command from a voice,

The coming out from a voice, my,

Airways.

Foreign.

The future machines now playing music in flats and rooms and telly screens all over.

Orwellian.

Dystopic.

A world gone mad.

Cameras everywhere,

Beings without spirits,

All of them everywhere.

After bush and blair, no capitals,

The Edgware Road,

The edge of a,

Normal to 7/7.

Fear and more capitalism,

once, Once, once

Frequenting friends and shisha pipe dens,

4 am. Bird song.

We were cohorts in Connaught.

Gone by.

And Soho and Madame Jojo’s.

Gone by.

The once Mary- le- bone doctor’s town,

Now lulu clan for bending dandasana,

All ass and ahh,

-nothing exotic just homogenised milk moving around each other.

-no music, or body rhythm.

Talking FOMO Vitrines.

A village no longer a village

Only the pharmacist, face and face to a name.

Once.

Delivering my father’s tickets from door to door,

From door to door

To know longer.

Once.

Heavily feathered and velveted creatures that resided within,

The book-smart, the elegant, the known and noted,

The belle vivant,

The aristo -non conformo,

No.

Now,

Non neighbours, I did not know them I DO not know them.

Newsagent-local,

The other one, the other one and the one in Fitzrovia

All gone.

And still I am the

Outsider.

Birthplace-anomaly.

Middlesex Hospital

now gone

Now an estate promoting The Creative of the digital

nonsense,

nothing,

no thing,

not even the bloomsbury group,

no.

They would shudder.

All are conforming

All are, anaesthetised,

Faded to grey and in

colours of navy and black

no more Soho

No ho.

boring.

yawn.

a big, big, yawn.

the sadness fills up the air like a fully vaporised soft capsule of heavy.

Heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy,

Boredom.