And the heavens cloak London a trampoline bouncing skyscreen baby-powder;
The deep-daylight-deep shimmering star-seamstresses twill wisp-silver floss;
The sheer missionary angel-wing awning weaves a porcelain floating fractal azure frieze,
Like surf waves for angels,
The stars are coral,
And the moon an extraterrestrial snow island.
And yet, and yet,
London in springtime,
Still feels, for all the world,
Like the devil has detached, and,
Dropped the motherload of his very stench-packed testicles -
His wizened, black-hole frazzled, dripping bollocks,
Over this putrid silver -
For under this alien, harsh Iberia,
Even the most enchanting women, solarised, have the look of serial killers.
London is springtime glistening
a wasteland of office plastic plant forests and a treated shit-packed river.
Yes, once dolphins were witnessed swimming in the Thames:
Whales sometimes land on a beach:
Doesn't mean they're looking for real-estate.
I once saw a flying saucer over London -
See any aliens living here?
For springtime in London,
Is as pointless as wasps;
As pointless as lemmings in Holland;
As pointless as afternoons,
And just as harsh,
Just as harsh.
For who, but the most evil omnipotent,
Would invent something as death-affirming as afternoons?
Yes, I'm looking,
I'm really looking.
Afternoon springtime in London:
A yellow halo,
No. Correction: a golden halo, glistening resplendent, over
a navy cloak of magentas, indigos, and turquoises,
But, still, it feels as tender as maggots fucking in bleach;
As life-affirming as a suicide bomber at the dentist;
As soft-warm as a Texan execution chamber.
It feels like that,
Springtime in London:
The sap rises venereal.
Even the most devout Hari Krishna troupe,
Dancing only to tamborines beating out
And only if they're feeling very positive,
And only when their third-eye is firmly scoping the escape hatch to Nirvana.
My cappuccino has the taste of dragon-teat effluvia:
A brown pro-plaque vortex suckling me into hell-lite.
This croissant crunches my teeth.
Solar flares ray-burn and cattle-prod necks and blind eyes
through tube's glaring cateract windows:
A demented kid-god lazers his butterflies through the public transport magnifying glass.
Dear Christ, water-board me back into the plunging darkness -
Into the rat-infested megalopolis of London's chez-Dracula subterranean lagoons.
The poor Thames mermaids burn,
A police boat gurgles,
As the divers haul one over-cooked stark dying beauty in;
One even respectfully swims back out again to rescue her harp,
strangled by weeds..,
The saddest of strings still somehow strikes its notes.
The cruel switchblade sunlight catches the harp strings weeping ethereal,
Koh-i-Noor size dew-drop tears dripping.
This is too much.
I turn away,