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london

yellow carriages shoot
beneath a sprawling
forest of concrete,
carrying old faces
at new speeds
both away
and towards
the self-sustaining smog.
the trains resting the people’s weary faces with
repeated words and
shuddering rocks,
letting them escape from
and at the same time be buried by
their masterpiece creation:
the city.

tourists don’t live
this sort of life.
they slowly clog
the city,
speaking with rough tongues and
strange accents,
rushing in
the wrong direction.
they only see the
iridescent shimmers of
fluttering pigeon wings,
not the
decaying cigarette butts
that fray
where their
clawed toes
scrabble.
they
see towers and
flowing flags,
never the hungry people
who lie beneath.
they see
only the
physical accomplishments
of the city,
freshly wiped glass
and iron rivets,
never the minds
of those
who sit below,
in a constant
state of movement
illuminated
only by flickering
fluorescent
lights.

that is why locals
hate them.
the city is grey
and cold.
on city streets
people rush
under a sky heavy
with the scent of
oncoming rain,
living their lives
in anticipation
of disaster to come.
the worry
is always masked with
polite faces.
when the rain comes it
breaks the anticipation,
washing away the bitter thoughts
of the people
along with
chipped black paint
from the streaked
taxis.
it bubbles
in the cracks
between pavement
and logic,
eroding the
sensibilities of both
city and
mind.
the water steals
the heart of the city,
dissolving it and
washing it away
to layer the
bottom of the
ocean.
yet the people
drive on forth,
always rebuilding
whatever material items—
now fraying napkins, concrete and crumbs—
have been swept away,
never thinking to
rebuild their
broken
minds.

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