On London

Rapture for the voyeur, the pimelated
tower of stones stuffed with scars
sang orbits in our shrouded city abound.
Their staffs of splendid jewels in thicker
fog than the city or its crowd, bound
together with the teething poor, spittle
of the waxing man with saxophone’s lull
in alleyways before had sowed, anteregum.
Each footfall a breach of burrowed souls
that gape above with carved names and
dates that hang as fruit rippened on branch,
plucked and tossed to tithers of wrecked
haven, bays rung in raven speckled gallows.
The Abbey a morticians revolt, each cross
a vagrant moss ran across the bespeckled
graves as ran “Homo sum, the adventurer”
still chilled in le couer du Londre, den
man nie finden kann, nor eye from afar.


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