Dear Mr Finch,

I visited your village this morning.

I was struck by the lines of greens.
I was smitten by the mighty trees.
I was gripped by the citizens,
by the softness of a hand
placing change with care into my hand
by the ease of each smile,
the feel of less stress
and the kindness I found.
I was touched by the welcome.
They did you so proud.

Yours contentedly,
Steve the Londoner.

Throat is sore
Glands are up
Banging head
Down on my luck

Confined to my bed
But too hot to sleep
Missing the air con
But for work I’m too weak

Swimming in
My own sweat
Stuck to the sheets
Which are wringing wet

Like a water bed
Or rather a paddling pool
My mattress has become la mer
But it’s stifling as oppose to cool

Life in the attic
Is an arduous affair
Sub Siberian in winter
Sweltering in summer sans any air

Oh, bring me an oscillating fan!
To waft me as I ail
In silver or white but definitely not black
Coordination with decor must prevail

I scour Argos
and Amazon online
But the fans are so plentiful
I cannot decide

Which one to order
And can they deliver?
Oh f**k, they’ve sold out
That’ll teach me to dither!

I’ll take a cold shower
If I can muster up the strength
To stand up for long enough
To get myself drenched

Nay, I’m too frail
At least at the minute
Thus my sweat sodden bed
Retains me in it

If I could just sleep awhile
Replenish my energy
Of this BO ridden pit
Could I at last be free

But this lurgey with which I’m afflicted
Coupled with the heat
Is keeping me awake
Sedate me, oh somebody, please!

I shouldn’t complain
It’s nice to have sun
But being broiled alive
Isn’t very much fun

Thus with the lobster
I utterly empathise
So torcherous and barbaric
A way to meet one’s demise

Fortunately I’m not a crustacean
Forcibly yanked by a net from the sea
I’m merely a girl with a viral complaint
Not viewed as a delicacy

Thus I should quit whining
And focus on being ill
For my head in the freezer could I stick
And with the frozen peas chill.

Stern men line a path, to
Doors with plaques stating former occupants:
Chopin, Churchill, Napoleon III.

Overhead flags hang early evening shadows
From ornate golden arms
Across the first of nine or ten marble steps.

And up them walk folk with schmoozing faces
From cars with private drivers
And windows tinted black.

White limestone porticos are
Split by solid black adorned with gold,
And expensive gowns in violent colour.

And I notice the eyes
Fixed on my passing
As I slip into familiar grey.

The wind is ripping
From the sound of oscillating
Overhead 'copters
Splitting my vision.

In the peripherals;

       A polyester carpet—sleeping bags—breaks the dry monotony of summer grass;
       The bicycle courier awakes from said floor, listless;
       Important man, suited, takes calls from other men, suited — octopus arms scattering papers, receipts, coffee cups and tie;
       Two hard hat builders chain cigarettes and fight visible hangovers, droopy eyes staring down some impending scaffold.

And I almost miss it all,
For the passing,
Of oscillating 'copters.

Pinprick morning eyes
See
Through blurry
Films;
            
            A rough sleeper/panhandling hopeful, wide awake, wishing a good morning — in my pocket, a toehold on Everest's side;
            A second (a girl), she's taught her dog to hold The Big Issue in between its yellow-black teeth;
            A scattering of people staring, smiling (at the pet)—"look, look"—"isn't it cute"—"bless"—;
            A flat expression, dead eyes (the girl's), she's ******* a selection of cuts on her arm, invisible;
            A tragic scene, in the shadow of London's limestone Everests.

But the toehold leaves
Selfishly
In my rushing, full
Pocket.

A composition, bordered by brown track, white shelter and
yellow line;

off-white, smear-windowed building (background)
                                  hexagonal floors, brutalist mandala;
triangle across the frame, a *****, polluted structure
                                  one half of a red cross logo, boarded windows
                                  - chipboard, corrugation, MDF;
and Southern Rail green is grass in the lower foreground
                                  arrows, words, people.

Rastafarian perches on a BT wiring cab
Slapping dark green metal and screaming
Obscenities in Patois and nonsense
Alone.

          Passersby stare; shrieking oldies;
                                       laughing kids;
                                       bewildered Neil;
                                       and I

Sit drinking, taking it all in
Alone.

Spare me your venice.
I know it's beautiful, but
I've four more senses
And a nose

That smells stagnant
Water and ****
Floating with pretty buildings
On the Adriatic.

Spare me: its Doges,
its saints, its Campanile.
Spare me piazzas and
inquisitive xenophiles.

I've got all the water
And **** I desire
Floating in pretty alleys
Beside the black Thames.

I concede.
This iridescent mask has sheered.
Melancholic holes breed a home,
a numb unwelcome coax cracks
in a frame so familiar.
The comfort in self, picked from marrow;
left all but a carcass
in the shadow of chipped smiles
hung from walls torn with cadence.
A weathered translucence,
where light fails to flood
rich in the poverty of hope.
A hope that tomorrow brings
the chance of remedy,
birthed from a purging kindle
to char the taste of sorrow brown -
until I'm softened to sand
and reshaped in former image.