Here again, the concrete shares itself with the clouds,
Rigid uniformity. And cadence. And colour,
Moves endlessly with the multitude,
An exodus from work, or school.
Teeming teens. A torrent of toddlers. The army of Adults…
See? I’m good with alliteration.
The nations of many packed into four small zones, so many tongues my head is filled with the sound of the familiar, mashed into words I will never remember.
I always thought of it as my city, does it belong to me alone? The thought of it breaks me to pieces. It is the land of the traveller, always baring its pleasure to strangers, but its secrets-like the pipe to the addict-evade those that seek it out.
A toast to the system that feeds on the extremes; Luxury flights and Economy class, Museums and food banks, Rolls-royce and the overcrowded railway. The in-betweens disappear in pavement cracks. Too much of the many to matter.
The jack-of-all trades will pass long before his exhausted his talents here. His gravestone will read: No one, Master of None. London once again has had its fun.
To become undone at the weight of all its gifts, pressed to nothing at the heaviness of the street lights. Shoved into the torrent of the heaving mass, spat out on the side street of some new adventure. A newborn again in the town he was born.