Damn this city and its many joys
the street uncontorts a labyrinth of lives
where i among them salvage only ghosts
and spend my time transforming them
back into the figures of shadows
that dive between my fingers
like a hardened swimmer,

There are no other cities like this
Singapore is clean, and Miami is fleshy
but London has a busyness and play
able to regrow any limb in its art
and stain your mind with a history washed
by the coal of its many streets
that wonder in and out from hell,

Love is not a slow option in such places
and entwines itself by night and dusk
in the stampeding march of the trains
and the busking hymns of the pigeons
where i lick your jaw and slap myself again
where the cities edge has so many worlds
and even enough for me to recover my breath,

It’s not a sweet thing like watching a shadow
wash or even the wild things in the somersault
nights no its more like the east end markets
that care nothing for time and rumble alert
devouring the sense of race and time in money
and letting you know that your pulse must move
lest it be wasted and buried below,

It lets you be savage in a way that small places cannot
no-one is concerned with the sweat of your tears
as there are just too many and they fall everywhere
the busmen swear at the drunk night folks
and my accent is lost in the dusk
the way i like it to be as I return to my flat
as the train shakes my home,

I still sleep with your pouring breath
as you complain the next morning that mine is bitter
and smells of too many beers from our dance
i watch you dress and take away my hatred
and even the slamming bulls creating shopping
centres have no weight as time is other than time
allowing our coffee to move down our necks,

And i hold your arse as the office bores
as it rains heavy and I walk alone by the thames
and move my lips around a cigarette in the night
travelling back by foot to the many places
that i always live in a metallic city made of skin
where even the crows have names
and the anonymous moon has many.


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