Oh London, you cruel bleach-blonde beast,

with Angel white teeth and Canary black lungs always sellin’ somethin’,

always runnin’ from feelin’ it.


​

You gimme dopamine dressed as neon,

but you starve me of oxytocin,

ya frigid queen of busy,

twitchin’ like a fox on coke under corner CCTV.


 

I buried a lover in the Thames —

old ghost of mine,

sank him where money meets memory.

Limehouse stood by,

its silence louder than any scream.


 

Now I wail a stoner rock howl,

in heels that don't forgive.


 

Boho spirit with a corporate tan,

sippin’ espresso martinis from a Tesco can.

You serve me a vegan burger in paper wrap,

made o’ plants, but haunted by McDeath’s trap.


 

Angel — oh she pretends she's pure,

but she cuts you clean

when the last tube’s gone

and all you’ve got

is Souvlaki shame and unfinished poems.


 

 

Kingsland Road,

ya glorious, dirty bitch —

you bruised me,

but fuck, you brought me back to life.

Loud hearts, fried oil,

smoke in my chest and truth in my jaw —

I saw god once at 4am,

and she was dancin’ to grime

with bleeding shoes.


 

You run faster than the grief, LDN,

but I learned to sprint right next to you,

sequins on my coat,

ashes in my purse,

and a grin that says

“don’t start, love — I’m older than you think.”