London

 

The way to stations is the same:

 

Oysters, stairs, (in a bin-less wonderland)

Metal tracks, colored lines

And electronic boards where time’s

On a permanent countdown.

 

Down there, you see

The Rodents and the Rat-Race

 

And dull dull – Electric chug

To Bond Street:

 

Express M&S,

Discrete signs of a credit crunch.

2 Minutes to Claridges:

No toilet-

But a cloakroom where shoe guards

Guard urinals

And History means Cost.

 

There’s international accents and one language:

A thesaurus of diction, pertaining to money

(Mostly the noun, but sometimes the artist)

 

The floors all shine, inside and out,

And I’d have to go looking for rubbish like an archaeologist.

 

All too much for M E

So, tube again.

The race is still on, but this time it feels like survival.

 

Glance at the map

Tooting or Hampsted?

I plumb for Wembely.

 

I hit the station, which looks like it’s been hit.

M&S is missing

But some joss stick is offered

Five for a pound

And I guess the Bangara was free

 

3 steps in and I’m side stepping junk

that Richmondites call recycling

and Etonians call chavs.

 

There’s international accents, but this time,

There’s these…

international words

And down trodden dressers

Seem to be saying

that these 14 degrees aint summer!

 

Markets sell me fruit by the bowl

And everyone eats fried creatures,

That aren’t chicken,

‘cos the price is right!’

 

and the spoilers,

subs,

saris,

and sale signs

Covering the town like some basterdised theme.

 

Each bench is an old people’s home.

 

I’m one hour and a world away

And ironically,

This is where charities find charity.