I have walked through sunrise on an August morning
With nothing but gin in my belly for three days
And a vice tightening inside
Fastening my feet to the pavement cracks
I’ve looked into them
And seen the worms they hide -
Concrete masks
Slipping into the mud,
London – built on swampland
A tortuous pink face beneath the brick.
I lift my eyes and there are others too
Others riding the same
Sinking ship
‘Captain of your own destiny’ no, no
These ships have been riding the bitumen waves
For far too long
All we can do is bail and bail and try not to fall beneath.
Pasties, croissants, sausage rolls
Locked behind orange windows
As impossible as walking to the sun
I chew upon my tongue and light head.
Hell is the mime artist trapped inside
His own invisible prison
Withering in the glasshouse.
I watch the circus of mime artists
Parading down the street
Bones breaking with each step
Who did this to us? Who
Built this pyramid
And locked us in with the dead pharaoh
Waiting for the rats
So much more hungry that you or I?
I know not, but can hear
Something passing beneath me
An angry red-eyed fleshy thing,
No, not one but many - legion,
And to here; here they come.
