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!