LEAVING THE FLATLANDS

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

silence.

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

velvet

blackness.

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.

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LEAVING THE FLATLANDS

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