A place where skyscrapers and tower blocks
reach the same heights, but the people don’t,
they both puncture the skyline but some gleam
blushing in the sun, and some just smoke.
On the same congested drive, you can see
where the Shard shanks the sky, where Grenfell hasn’t fallen
a charred, skeletal monolith of remembrance
and they want to cover it in tarpaulin.
You can cross the road from the fractured city lights
pulsing behind your eyelids, into fog-grey streets
weighing heavy in your lungs, as you pass
weathered bears and withered wreaths.
The central line rumbles through the pavement,
up into my boots, I shudder with the gravel at the thought
of a city so alive it heaves and retches when it remembers
its flaky skin is made of money, and all its cells have begun to rot.
I am not a silent poet 