London

I have had such a shit afternoon in London.
I haven’t enjoyed my walk here.

The people are aloof. Exasperatingly rude.
The city was crowded, noisy and polluted.

Walking along Oxford Street
I had to fight for every inch.

Beautiful fashionable women
are arrogant beyond belief.
Street vendors scowl,
as I’m sure I must be presently.

I’m on my guard always.
I don’t for a second feel safe. It’s so busy - claustrophobic activity.

You get the idea that
this is where things happen. It’s where you can’t possibly ever say a kind
word to someone unless you know him or her.

It’s a fight within myself to not reject this place whole,
to burn it from my memory.

But the thought of going back to Leeds,
to Norwich, to anywhere makes me nauseous.

On the outside looking in,
this city seems too hostile.

But if the heart of London were my home,
if I knew every inch of it,
if I had friends here,
if I was a musician, a writer here -

It’d still be a struggle to stay sane and open
and feel safe enough to stroll and smile,
but I’d Love to have London as my home.

I feel living here would be akin to drawing a slightly dulled razor across
my wrist with the semi-confidence that to draw blood

- just a little –

would be orgasmic.