London, I am not one of your children.
I love you in fits and starts.
I am one of those who, on buses, looks up to see the name of the next stop.
I like horizons.
Where I really grew up, you can see for miles.
But you can also see that there is nothing for miles.
I need that sodium disease to add fever to my night.
Sirens are my lullaby, not this distant threatening hummmmm or worse
So much so that you can hear a pin drop,
hear a psyche being pulled through the eye of a needle,
hear a single muscle twitch in need of something to hold onto
in that vast
London, I don’t want this to be one of those things
where we meet years later at a party and have
nothing to say.
Your flaws are cavernous
but at least they’re obvious.
I forgive you, friend.
I need that overlaid patina of centuries written into
your pockmarked face.
Your burning rubber, screeching tyres, neon blindness.
London, I’m leaving the flatlands.
I’m coming home.