All along the Isis
That part of Thames claimed by Oxford
Is a small dirt path.
You think it used
For practical purposes, or bedazzling show?
No.
Instead it is a naval graveyard –
A procession of garbage barges –
A regular Junk Row.
All along this Junk Row,
The dejected tenants line politely, bow to stern,
Covered in dead leaves
Browner than the rust on their bellies
And the dirt on their roofs.
But take their word, and not my own –
Besides my word
Will prob’ly be denied
By those lovely Oxford scholars
And the boats’ owners, who wish to stay port.
“My name is Lady Ethel,
And I’m rather smartly dressed:
Cracked headlamps lit
By pigeon shit
And holes borne ‘long my breast.”
“They hail me Captain’s Rat
Since jealousy ensnares –
Considering
That everything
I own they claim was theirs.”
“Here Comes Trouble is my name,
Sailing stoned-out is my game.
My clogged engine,
Peeling green skin,
And dank steam have gained me fame.”
“Behold, I be the Magick!
Though there’s nothing grand about –
The only trick
You’ll see me stick
Is how I can stay afloat.”
“Sir! I’m the stout Commando!
I always stay covert!
Food, leaves, and crap
(And sticky tree sap)
Keep me from a just desert!”
“I might be called the Doghouse,
But don’t let that name fool you:
My master’s pet
Might be master yet
Since both’ve marked my inside through.”
“I’m the Midnight Fairyman,
And I implore, please stay away –
I’ll try to hide
The lads inside,
But my rocking does betray.”
“Aye, they known me as Scott Free
Since Scott Free is what I am –
The lad in charge
Lives free of charge
Since hey’s quite the famly man.”
“Shloop is written on my belly,
Quite a simple, silly title.
It’s no wonder
Since that blunder
Does not consider college vital.”
“Africana – but say it soft!
Driver’s cruel in thoughts of fun.
Still, I don’t blame
His bondage game
Since young charges scream and run.”
There you have but ten Junkies
Along that cursed Junk Row
There are many more,
Many, many more,
But do you want to hear more
Trash from trash?
Wouldn’t it be better to let them rot?
Sit there until they sink
From the weight of leaves or secrets
Rather than make a fuss
And uproot that soiled soil?
Morning's Early Dark 