Oh Eastgate

The street of dreams

Broken ones

in broken bottles

Methodone guy, his bull terriers’ cock swinging with virility a taunt to his drug addled masculinity

Oh Eastgate

Gun shops and Turkish Markets

Drinkers on the steps, piss in the alleyways. Special brew and special memories looking out the window

Police in the street wrestling for coats

Roman City, medieval poverty

Eastgate, Eastgate, crapper than Northgate (Northgate’s got a cash generator).

Oh Eastgate, polish cake, friendly faces in unlikely places

Children chatting in hi-vis distraction on the walking bus journeying to the library

Oh Eastgate

Tattoo parlour, a pint of lager at 11am, the jukebox stuck on Billy Joel once again

Laundrette full of regret and idle clatter

Eastgate may have a lot on its plate but it’s full of brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers, the vibrancy of lovers

It once echoed to the strains of a Wurlitzer and even Glenn Miller

Eastgate a mad old gem, have mercy on me I’m back again

Oh Eastgate is open late but now the number 12 takes the workers home

Copyright John de Gruyther 2017


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