orange parsley streets
bursting with british-accented scufflings
of the global electronic cadence
and splashing away, action-painting onto
the papier-mache of dusty old art rooms
of the best education system in the whole wide world
good grief! bubblegum-pink and completely unlinked
self-diagnosed psychedelic youths with too many causes
that yearn for London that mystery
and the Paris that lives best in the minds of its admirers
my snot-filled tropical chest beats back
can you hear your heart breathing?
or the curl of a cigarette sound a bird in your lung?
in every of our stacked-up floors lies the heartland
your floor is my roof – neighbour, thou shalt not bang
the cellophane affair through which every citizen sees
but my safe, bathos-sparkling city?
I can taste her lie on the sweat of my lips
that has melted yet into the artificial cold