the bittersweet homecoming
these telephone box blues
distance has humour
life does too

The resounding muses
of this rash riddled air
are as follows:
Feces
Garbage
A skin-bloated scent of leaking mammals

Death has pluck, you know, the like to sever love,
Then to show unannounced after the ruckus,
Even after so many no-shows at the theatre or club.
Death, indeed, is a tough sport, I am told,
Who plays cricket or some the sort,
Though no one really knows or asks,
“Wicket” does seem a word of choice.
But, for certain, a devil’s ouija hand
Of bridge whist, as sure as lives off
Pall Mall or Regent, as pipes a walk
In the London fog, here and there.
Yes, indeed, I would call him a chum
If he wasn’t such a cad.

The city never sleeps,
it's too busy wallowing
in broken dreams and
smiles as vacant as the buildings
that are too tall,
and too bright
to ever close.

London.
What do you need it to be?
The Capital?
A powerhouse?
An icon?
Your career boost?
A short city break ?

For me
it's home.

I am
in Eden
a mother's
brother but
this chunnel
is surf
London would
scarf to
the sands
therein dawn
as their
bridge was
to cross
the air
with Tim
where in
Times Square