In London,
birds drown among the sinking catacombs
then listen to gabba when the cinemas shut down
leaving Polaroids lost on the tube.
In New York,
tramps swallow diamond rings like sweetened cornflakes,
hug pools of flesh
and perform at mafia family dinners.
Street kids hum Bob Dylan with the finesse of opera singers.
There’s no crime, just extras from Seinfeld dancing to blind piano prodigies in football
stadiums.
In London,
the rich work on lung cancer like a head-to-toe suntan—but there’s no sun, and the sky walks
on crutches.
In fact, cigarettes are so long they snake around the block,
waiting to fight their violent step-dads.
The bankers have no credit,
they creep like cats on composite walls and suffer hunger pangs.
In New York,
frat boys inject freedom into their veins
and watch Marvel movies
at 30,000 feet.
Fast cars sleep under rocks and come alive at night,
mingle,
drink,
and leer over loose women
wearing cartoon shades and razors
from their lips.
But it’s all in good fun—
the cars think very deeply.
In London,
the babies are left to roam the parks
like confused schizophrenics.
They hunt in packs
for amputated teddies and dead e-cigarettes.
Police raid the suburbs and smoke out
mosquito hotels
leading to abortions on broken trampolines.
In New York,
teenage punks board buses at high tide and traffic jams simply
vanish.
Alcoholics are crowned kings of rehab and stun the stock market
with their naked geishas
swinging from electricity pylons
under rainbows
and warm rain.
So, I’m moving to New York,
do I even have a choice?
I’m stripped naked,
my passport painted brown.
I’ve spared no expense—
one hundred whores
will welcome me at Coney Island,
dressed as Mike Tyson.
I intend to learn the slang,
run for office,
and put the London blues
behind me,
because New York is my Mecca.
I will crawl there
until my knees bleed.