New work...

London
London awaits me,
Her twice-worn skirt
Fluttering enticingly.

I can smell the city,
And civilisation.

For, in London
You can be anyone.

No small minds.

Just her hurrying children,
Scurrying like rats from
Tunnel to tunnel.

London is a wise old whore,
Who could tell a few tales
But everything is sacred;
The smallest details
Will not leave her lips
Because London is a lady
And she’s seen more than most.

Endless jabbering and sickly smells
Float from coast to coast.

The scrutiny of aristocrats
As they debate a bruised apple.

The lost words
Of a foreigner
Drift alongside others.

So many unanswered questions
And lonely beds
In hotels I can scarcely afford.

An ideal home
For the nomadic soul.

Man of pallor and sinew,
Lie beside me
As I contemplate the river
That is forever there for me,
Flowing tetchily forth
Like the disgruntled aristocrat
Who discards a bruised apple
Not good enough for him to eat.

Fruit lies forgotten
In London’s violent heat.