#cityoflondon
There's nothing left of me here,
only the ghosts appear,
they've barricaded themselves
in the abandoned buildings,
I see them peeking out.
The cities voices, familiar, shout,
even as they whisper.
There's nothing left of me here
or my ears would blister,
like they used to.
It used to be: find today's food for all,
then dinner from the bins
and tonight squatting the old school.
Being homeless is a full time job,
ruled by desperation and The Law of Sod.
From the street, the city stands naked,
free of it's dazzling attire.
Underneath all the buildings,
the foundations of history,
is the same boggy mire
(from which it sprang)
I wrote poems on these pavements,
some, simply, political statements, in colour,
but there's nothing left of me here,
the slabs have all faded, once again grey,
and this is all I have to say:
The city didn't notice that I've been missing,
it was lost in it's lovers arms, kissing,
a Time Immemorial embrace;
oranges & lemons
and the finest of lace,
a commercial covenant
with The Man With No Face.
The entire space was built
on the idea of exploitation.
There's nothing left of me here,
I left along the road of alienation.
A bankers brogues tread on beggars hands;
actually, this here is private land,
property of The City of London.
Well, I'm ******* gone, son.
There's nothing left of me here,
I'm done.
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 6:56 AM UTC