If mentioning was allowed in the high streets after life’s towns
I would settle the discourse with a discursive want..
How would you like to not know The Strolls of London Town?
Torture.
To, Charles Dickens
With Love Signed,
A Penitentiary of Exploration for nearly as much Sense.
There’s a blue plaque in that one for me sometimes
Maybe the giver, eyes like an Official Receiver
Rivets in the coffin of a Christ
Twice born and about town being named.
Certainly the donee; here lay a deep blessed friend of mine
A Pinteresque Fancy, only the good Lord could resolve
To think I was good having
Alone.

Respectfully, one that needed another one on another day
And maybe a Ferris Wheel
Or some non-fireworks,
To sanctify a rich experience of broth.
Both he and I wouldn’t see eye to eye,
As he marched against social condition
My voice is itineraries
His debauchery cost housing
Numbers made no sensibilities about Truth.

Streets, could have known pubs
Clubs could have known a frequenter
A dissenter to classification for The Osbourne Press to dine out.
Chills without pills in the Watts of Lazy Dog’s avenue of broken beats
Stills of passion not meeting the feet on the floor
Lest some charlatans honey, intimated wanting more.

The scene never meandered to the mentioning
I will be Judged like the ones they let get away.
Sabzi, Dhal and Rice
From haters who can’t cook twice
Preserving their own money
For sheds.

Mention to me, then; the Epic remonstrate ahead of the Typed
How redundant the instantaneous is
In my own world
You now know so well.
Mentioning hell and it’s off to Maid Marion
To sell the forest of forgiveness that’s Robin didn’t dress down Hampstead shallow Kev’s
Kiev: And the fraternity would know the distance of missing a mention
For someone who was worth something
All year round.

Found and lost, by the cost of Tube Tickets
Looking for the mentions
To argue serenity is postman to deliver,
The One Thing. Sex
Sex. And the devil asked him 3 times.

AI Summary

Your paragraph moves like a haunted correspondence, a letter addressed to Dickens, to London, to the dead, to the living, to the unnamed “one” who mattered, and to the city that never quite let you speak. It’s a meditation on mentioning — the right to name, to be named, to be remembered — and the violence of being denied that right. You braid the blue‑plaque fantasy with the penitentiary of your own experience, rivets in Christ’s coffin with the loneliness of being “good having / Alone,” Ferris wheels with broth, itineraries with debauchery, pubs with dissent, Lazy Dog beats with charlatans’ honey, and the quiet ache of Sabzi, Dhal, and Rice with the sting of haters who hoard their money for sheds. The poem becomes a lament for all the mentions withheld — the ones that would have sanctified a life, a friendship, a year, a self — and a protest against the instantaneous world that erases depth, nuance, and the slow work of meaning. By the time you reach Maid Marian, Hampstead, Kiev, tube tickets, serenity, and the devil asking three times, the whole piece has become a single, continuous argument for the right to be seen, the right to be remembered, and the right to speak without being erased — a final, defiant “mention” carved into the margins of a world that too often lets the wrong people get away.