Just another day.

Lady justice, to my left.

Above the court house.
What I called work, you called Deft.
Where to walk, how to hang.
Watch the cable, its a killer.
Tie my knots well, lest I go to hell.
Upside down, I smile to someone pretty,
In the crowd. 
She smiles back as if she likes me,
But she’s secretly hoping I’ll fall down.
I lead her on, pretend a slip.
Then, my lunch is over.
Back up to lady justice, to give her a quick lick.
The lights are fading, the nights coming in.
..You wouldn’t get it.
You just wouldn’t understand.
You'd get an app to see this view,
.. then change it to another.
But its.. a beautiful view.
It’s why I do my thing.
Fifteen story’s high and counting, 
and it makes my heart sing.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Before Parkour there was just,

climb up to the top of that high building, by any means nessasery.


Paint the ruddy thing, or fix the thing, or replace it, or set it,

and don’t die or drop anything.


That was my job.


Ever took a pic, on a 110 camera, hanging of the side of a hotel roof,

upside down on a rope? Because theres a half led gargoyle statue.

They are considering recovering?


Honestly, that was one of the easier days.


Mostly, it was hanging of the side of bloody high chimneys.

by a rope in the wind and rain. Trying to point brickwork,

before the wind blew the cement of the trowl.


Men’s work. Not like all this hipster crap thats become fashonable.

They say being a steepjack’s a cool job, a hipster job.

But it was just, a mans job.


Don’t get me wrong, women did the job, too.

A woman steeplejack, even climbed Everest.


But about as un-P.C a job as you could get.


Nowdays, guys just sell crap cars to blag people,

or teach to a incredibly low standard, but have the right certificates.

Or work in fake shops like the apple store,

but know practically nothing about the products.


I’m sick of meeting over qualified idiots,

who never even understood the subjects they took.


Pansies, the lot of them.


Take a title.

Learn the trade.

You could be forced to drive a tank in Iraq,

or work washing up, in a restaurant in Paris.


But you’d still be who you are.


I met a woman. 20 years ago.

A florist. I mentioned it to her in passing,


Her eyes lit up as she remembered,

and spoke about it. 


She said, I remember when you brought them,

but you never said for who,

your not the kind of guy to buy flowers.



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allets's picture

That Reply Belongs In The Prose Section

Lots of life in there, some wisdom, some truth - enjoyed the comment/explanaiton. Steepjacks, I learned a new term. High up restoration - amazing skill and feats done safely for you to come and tell the tales. - slc