Memoirs of London - 17

17.

Another distinguished member of  the group was "Old Jerry", one who boasted of having left a leg in what battle I did not know well and proudly displayed numerous decorations of the British Imperial Wars of which he had taken part. He always greeted me happily and was the only one who always drank but good brand of whiskey.

One day, after I had not seen him around for a while, he told me that he had escaped from the "shelter", where some of his relatives had him locked up. He told they  had stolen all his  money and did not even leave him a small amount for a drop of wiskey and hence, as long as he lived, he wanted to live free to do what he wanted, after so many had seen and survived from; and significantly touching the prosthesis, limping but cheerful, he reached his companions who already called him from the benches in front, foretasting  in the throat a sip of good branded whiskey.

More mysterious was instead "Colby", a Welsh still distinguished guy, despite his  vagabond life was going on  for several years. It was said of him that he was in the service of the "Metropolitan Police". One morning a band of the "Salvation Army" passed through the square, with great sounds of trumpets, drums and songs praising the Queen, the national heroes, God Almighty and Divine Mercy, with the chiefs leading the march in high uniform, strutting as general, and in the queue the women volunteers,  with an angelic and inspired face, with the hair gathered in a cap, like so many nuns and the chest of drawers hanging on the neck with the inscription "thank you".

Colby had noticed the arrival of the Salvation Army just as he made his way to his favorite benches in the center of the square. It must have seemed risky to expose him to the square, because, like a hunted prey he took  refuge inside the room, hiding  behind the ice cream machine. Not seen, from there, he made gestures to the  joyous and glorious  parade, moving the index and the middle fingers of the right hand from the bottom upwards and then crossing them by way of an oath and pronouncing outrageous and unrepeatable phrases in their  regards.

 - "The last time they put their hands on me" - he told me as soon as he saw the danger escaped - "they even tried  to convince me that milk is better than my slop; but I told them, you know, I'm tired of being imposed and I do not want to be redeemed by them! Furthermore those kind of generals in the front are a bunch of sexual maniacs and the women on the rear do not even serve to suck my cock! "

17. to be continued...

Memoirs of London - 16

16.

There were, all around Leicester Square so many public places, each one with its own peculiarities. For example the "Cafe Paris" behind his seeming normality, kept a secret known only to a small circle. It was frequented by old and rich women in search of gigolò or any handsome young man in order to forget for a few hours, their loneliness and their time, perhaps ran  too quickly; or "The worm", a meeting place for gays and lesbians; the "Cokney Pride", where was played  the  traditional London’s music. 

Just in front of my pitch used to gather  a group of tramps.  They sat very often in a circle on the benches, right in the middle of the square.   The benches were set all around  a circular flowerbed in  care to Mary, a girl with no age, brown skin and black hair, stained teeth partially broken on the front. As  a young woman she had been a maid at Buckingham Palace and had been sacked for his drinking  or stealing; or perhaps because of an unwanted pregnancy; her friends called her "Queen Mary" or simply "Queen". With her I had more frequent contact, for  she was fond of ice cream.  I presented one cone to her, from time to time. Afterwards I knew many of them. Each one with his own story.

Miss Rambling, an elderly paralyzed lady who juggled with her wheelchair in London traffic, better than a gymkhana champion, was the only to be  strictly abstemious.

 The others guys and girls, including Mary, were all heavy drinkers. They drank alcohol in place and more than any other liquid drink, including water and milk. However, not everyone had reached the terminal stage of alcoholism.

Max, for example, was sloping slowly but inexorably on the verge of addiction. It was increasingly difficult for him to "hook" in  the Cafè Paris, from which he portrayed his only source of income.

As a young man, as shown by some of his youthful photos he proudly showed, he resembled Clark Gable and of his original beauty only remained in his face a distant halo, distinguished by black mustache, still well-groomed and thin, on a  vaguely sensual lip. But when he was in  group with the tramps, with a bristly beard on his reddish cheeks and crumpled clothes, he looked more like the shadow of himself than that of the American celluloid myth he had looked like in his youth.

 Max had played at the races, one by one, all the properties inherited from his family. He often talked to me about horse racing and sometimes, in the transportation of his story, he said with rage that he would succeed on  redeeming at least one country house in Wales, where he would finally retire for a quiet and sweet old age.

The others, for the most part, were however much more battered and unkempt. Hair without care, black face, of that black that only the road can give; always dirty and torn clothes; beltless trousers  and laceless shoes, signs of their frequent go to and  from places of forced hospitalization, if not from the Royal English Prisons.

They always had the inevitable bottle of liquor or wine in their hands or pockets, or, in the lean periods, a concoction they called "sloppy drink", or more simply "slop" of which I could never understand exactly which ingredients it was made of.

"A Stuff" - Joe,  an ex-boxer,  once told me,  - "that when you drink it, it kills you kindly".

16. to be continued...

The Poem of Creation

Prologue

I sing the God Almighty’s Creation

Wherein were firstly born Adam and Eve

former seed of any human Nation

at the time they could only conceive

the joyfulness with no desperation

In the Eden still so far to misgive

The trick of that infernal snake

Who likes to be the Manhood's fake!

I also sing about the valiant braves,

descending  from the ancient, chosen race,

who such in courageous and daring ways

Isr’eli people to holy surface

They led of Palestine. Betray’ls, hates, loves,

I don't omit, on fortune and disgrace:

those between God and men, between kingdoms ;

and  wars, exiles and  laws  into my songs.

Arduous so much however it ‘s my part,

long and full of traps my composition,

That plenty of fear I feel into my heart,

if I dare to see myself on action,

and tremble with my hand before I start

The Old,  the New and all Holy Narration!

My Fairy God, You Firmament’s Creator

Allow  me to become such a narrator!

From Genesis’ to Apocalypse’s book

please drive my hand between rhymes and accents

to enable  jointly with my mind, to hook

the most significant, deep, true  sentiments

in order they can take a fairly look

of those seventy three, pious components!

If someone goes to Source for sweeter tasting

 all my efforts for sure I won’t be wasting!

... to be continued with The World's Creation...