Meditations On Gentrification

a very loose ghazal, imperfect and improper

Shoreditch pixies have died or gone away
See their wings trapped under painted sprays.

I just hope they find somewhere new to play.
Our homes got tighter than whalebone corset stays.

Shoreditch pixies in black and blue and grey
with your opal eyes and brows all rearranged.

Can you dance still, amidst the crimson fray
of flatulent, didactic dames so prearranged?

Will you mock them? Incite a gay parade?
That would just delight them. Demand another stage.

Our homes belch, moan, simper and crave
something more snappish than this posh grave.

My hidden corpuscles call you home today
our blood mixed could splash this place quite fey.