Kerouac’s London

Swatting flies and pushing prams on a smug
London slither where they sell vegan burritos

and bagels, and ‘soul food’ but it’s more jazz food
all flash and frothy in golden baguettes like jazz man horns.

A French tramp pushes a caydanlik under my nose,
says it’s rum old silver, fit for a king (and a bum).

I’m pursuing a moth on a raspberry pie under the henna
stall, getting high on sugar and the good red trickle

and the little sweet notion of a cloud of cotton
above the greatest city in West-ern Eur-oh-pah Land.

I should stop the drink. I should stop the Zen
homilies in thalassic taprooms along that river

-that beat river. There’s no denying the soul-sag,
and the wee curdles in the belly milk.

But London keeps you alive, you know?
A big old peach dripping in a tired old hand.Yazaaahh!

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