It's Over...

London? I don't know. Crowded, cold, exciting. I tried to write a poem about it, about the business faces and the brit rockers. I'm think I'm ready to leave so there might be a slightly whiny slice:

[i]London is starving Starbucks breakfasts,
Ties tied too short, black bags, pointy shoes,
Rushing damp tunnels, no kids, no dogs,
No God, only a plastic number for a muse.

London is late morning showerless black coffee
(No longer tea), only skinny jeans and cigarettes,
Cellphone assets, tiny white headsets,
5 o'clock bedtimes, tensomething potentiality.

London is a fat wrinkled elm tree
Ringed with kings, short haired queens,
Ruffled neck writers...so many old things and--
Bombs:
But forgotten fragments are reassembled unknowingly.

London is life packed in ice cold concrete:
Eyes that know every ocean, every dirt color,
Ears that hear faraway gunshots, legs that ran.
We're safe here, under man's own promised land.

London was my beginning and is now the end
Of coach-bus blab, John Smith, and Pretend.

Sorry that you actually read that, nay, all of this blog. But I tried to give something back, maybe even my eyes will slip across this later and remember. I hope to see the 3 or four of you that sacrificed precious moments of LCD screen dreams, studying, sleeping, maybe even the coveted times of absolute nothingness to read my bramble. Whatever. Peace. Cheers. I'll try to write next from Australia.