Spring rises 
over the concourse,
in edges of sunshine,
and tentative Davids.

Unzipped pac-a
macs, a flourish of 
chest. Luminous gloved
fingers

unsheathed. Mother's
day in windows, WH
Smith with her globes
and ribbons,

the half-echo of 
escaping children. Jimmy
in the news again. March
offering up

the warmth of a Mall.

this is a mock-up poem

with fake people in it,

static forever-

ideal.

Backstage at the Mall,
reading stories of death,
despair, exploding limbs,
rape, Syria, bullets and
rat boys, our eyes have
gotten tired. Marketing
manager lost her window.
Promotions uncoil across
the foyer, ghosts,
that leave no teeth, or print.

Mum's the word.
Treat her up, pink.
Flowery  
breasts and feather 
dusters. Bubbly!

Mother's milk
like Chardonnay,
an explosion. 
Shiny box of
smiles and pain. 

Mother. Argy
bargy. Top tips, 
Chatting, diamante.
Hidden in her 
nest within a nest,

Matryoshka. 

self-improvement

a kid was sick
entirely and properly
over the polished floor
by the candy floss stall

his mother
drowning in
dark tissues
mops it up

an island of
puke, despair

soon opening:
a cut price 
mouth, yawn 
of last season's

bargain items
called: TK
maxx! a steal,
dress for less

bucket of mix
match- fine finds
and celebrity
scents named

WOW or YES
or ENVY
destined for 
pulses, napes

woman in stark purplet
contrasts her body onto
card factory. she leans
on her rollator and gazes
in at the mumbo jumbo,
furry handcuffs, fifty shades.

Pale, invisible,
faces bob above the walkway
like so many clouds,

fingers of human, frozen
tight into February,
jingling.

Pockets turn
for Moon Balls, the 
glow in the dark

bounciest balls of all.
Any old shit from
the pound shop quite

frankly, just 
like Ray Mears with his
sticks and gentle

coercion, lights
a tiny spark that climbs
into fire. Quality 

Street. Drown out
the ever early brutal
mornings,

soldier on. Treat
yourself, island
dwelling- a type of

war, must be
compensated. Finger
the goods!

Buy your dog a
cut-price Xmas bone 
of latex: Chupa Chups.

 lady wants your money. I tell her

she makes a good strawberry

and think that beyond that

perhaps the goodness is somewhere

about her smile, resting soft

amongst the sun-green leaves of summer.

one week to go until
lift off. love will blanket
the whole of town,
gum-licked sheathes will
crack openward, rose-
holding bears, eyes glassed
over to roar love-

we love each other. today
we'll eat calamari and blink
through the candied dark into
eyes vs eyes. sex menu,
fish-net murmers, the entire
history of us; gusset-less,
staggering islands of lust.

Google Map Reviews with added Flashbacks

The Mall at Walthamstow is a recently redeveloped local mall featuring a number of different shops to suit everyone's taste. Everything from bookshops to clothing stores to a supermarket, you can find a wide range of products at fairly low prices. The mall is connected to the local market, so even if you don't find what you're looking for inside it's more then likely that you'll find it close by. Although there isn't a cinema inside, there's one located less than 5 minutes away (Empire Walthamstow). Parking and toilet facilities are also available.

Annoying to navigate. Very few shops - food court has a bad range of restaurants. It is always busy!

It's got all the shops you may want but it's essentially just another shopping mall done badly.

Bit depressing - feels kind of like a worst-of-Britain showcase mall. Doesn't help that the carpark closing signs aren't illuminated from the street, and it shuts at 10. Protip: If your car gets shut in here, just use your old ticket in the machine and it'll charge you £10 rather than the £25 overnight rate.

Nice shopping, but not many silver jewelry.

Hosted muito. Foi facil localizar

The remote gulls perch and sink as

kids worry their centre, flapping upward,

startled, port out, starboard home.

Earlier I see a woman with foil on her hair like a shining tree. Spring
is toothless as a mystic, missing idiot. The Mall is ripe, bloody with Valentine's,
men swirl around the cards, in pain. Sometimes the atmosphere here is thick
as bastards... we trot our paths like half asleep, sticking our kids on plastic.

A portal opens upwards. A lift bings and there we see a goose fat poet harping
on, still thinking. A crack runs along the narrative, a blind need. People hobble
through BHS with nothing to buy. Once a bird flew in and smashed itself into
darkness, a panic that ran through us like splendour.

Today the sky.
Today the sky 
and it RIPS the birds.
The birds rest on the 
dirty wind.

Over the arches
of the. Over the 
pinch & punch of
a roaring stream
of endless buses,

over the dead park
and into the faces.
Boys crash their
ball into the painted
trees. Tumbleweeds

of plastic strands push
into the doom and
the sky is. Today.
The sky! Bad smoke 
from a dead man's pipe.