Where you know what lurks between the paving stones
Where you know what dribbles out the drainpipes
Where you know what rushes through the gutter
Where you know the slime in the brew'ry alleys

Where you know the graffiti tags on the street signs
Where you know the stickers on the lamp posts
Where you know the lead on the roofs
Where you know the locks on the windows

Where you know what is in the bin
Where you know what blocks up the public toilets
Where you know the algae on the boat moorings along the river
Where you know the black which clings to the underside of Belisha Beacons

Where you know the taste of the traffic
Where you know the rotten fruit in the market
Where you know the pigeon-shit daubed wall beneath the iron railway bridge
Where you know the acrid taste of the money

Where you know the smell of the telephone booths
Where you know what the seats on public transport feel like
Where you know the grease on the hand rails
Where you know what the the bus window tastes like

Where you know what shoes walked up the steps of the Public Library
Where you know the clip of heels on the marble floor
Where you know the smell of the furniture polish
Where you know what cloth shone the brass door knobs

Where you know what filth trickles out from doorways
Where you know what words will come from certain mouths
Where you get what the crazy man screams at the bus-stop
Where you know what's on the underside of your shoes

Where you know the smell of the post office
Where you know the complaints in the Doctor's waiting room
Where the sound of morning TV makes you suicidal
Where you know the blow of the school yard whistle

Where you know what will be left in the bakers at 4pm
Where you know in what shop milk is a penny cheaper
Where you always walk in the opposite direction to the postman
Where you know how to get what and from who

Where you know the dust in the air vent
Where you know the dampness on the walls
Where you know the rubbery seal around the kitchen sink
Where you know the larvae in the cupboard

Where your dead skin twirls in the sun beams
Where your footsteps lead back to old shoes
Where heartache is paid with the rent
Where your genes are the rubble of demolished streets

Where the Argos catalogue is Bible
Where you buy a bed for a comfortable death
Where you “bagsy” your cemetery plot
Where you write your own epitaph

Where you know the sounds in the roof
And the screams in the night
Where the tears you can let cry
Where love and hope was lost
Where you learn how to die

that's your home.


  1. i juz read 3 a heroin head u waz born babe a baby perfect not a heroin head u juz took a wrong path like me more then once , no 1 is perfect dont run yourself down ur a person just as good as the next man/woman look at your work here these poems are awesome better then any crap a counselor/drug worker could sum up in years of work hold ya head up high and be happy and proud 8) u perfect xx

  2. Shane, I just wrote to you but it's not showing; please accept my sincere embarrassment if two similar messages arrive.

    How would you feel about me sharing this with senior poetry students? We would analyse it, create our own and compare each other's during discussion. Sounds as wanky as it can get right...

    Respectfully, Clare

  3. Claire, I saw your comment through email but now it seems to9 have disappeared from here. Some weird things are happening with comments on this site.

    Of course you can use the works here...You don't even have to ask. Not sure if you've read the 'Junking Ballad of Earling Mid-morning' but if not it would be a poem worth looking at for students as i8t's very interesting and really gives something to make and aim for. You can find me reciting ity on youtube. If your seniors devise their own stuff based on mine, do please send me a few through so as I can see what they came up with. You can mail me at mr.shanelevene@gmail.com.. X