TIM WELLS

Hoxton Market Forces

A piano teeters on the edge
of the top floor, Balfron Tower.
The seconds before it plummets,
the electricity of coming rent rises
runs through the assembled tenants.

Gone are the aerosoled (classic)
cock and balls, paintbrushed football teams.
‘Artists’ are the rats that herald the plague.

A stabbed local lad’s claret
is [t]weeted, selfied and playlisted;
the Jobcentre now a bar
where trust funds flaunt their edge:

irony is when they don’t have the balls
to flick two fingers to our face,
yet they’re two fingers still.

The piano powers down as our rents soar up.
The crash is a certain music:
a cacophony of notes. Pound notes.

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