rap: alt. title: make sure you blah-blah (speak)
real'quickly and also "hope"
that there's some rhyming involved...
blitzkrieg-the-fuck-out-of-any-and-every-verbiage...
comes the bothersome cringe
baggage of: an audience with a critic...
or... an audience of critics
and one jovial attaché who is drunk
and also implodes with clapping images
of birds flapping their idle wings
to usher in... a sun-yawning-rise:
demands for Elizabeth II mug artefacts...
for that that high noon tea at 5pm english
GMT... a London that was once
a city with people punk-screaming:
by the river! by the river...
underwater Loondoon shrunk
to an envelope sized reminder of
Hollywood testing the waters of:
what city next to nuke?
an unbearable dry cough...
some menthols, some cough medicine...
some lapses into sickly star anise tinged
medicines of a syrop consistency...
what is needed to be said in a profound
way... in any way...
to have the leash dozen for 12 dogs...
but not dogs in sight or readily
tugged into a goose-strapped walk -
perfect square cohort of the slowest
variant of transit...
beside the District Line...
all of the odes required to state
the existence of a London unverground
are surely bound to: beginning
from Upminster ending up in Richmond...
such petty nostsalgia...
such petty anything from anywhere,
to any fusion borrowing
a nothing for a crossroads...
perhaps the Metropolitan Line
can compete with the District Line...
perhaps the Bakerloo can compete
with Victoria...
perhaps the Northern Line
can compete with Piccadilly...
and the Jubilee line with the Central Line...
i once cared to fall asleep on
the Circle Line...
i once wanted to think
of the Hammersmith & City line as
some vacant avenue that
needed to be made whole with
my own variation of a cameo...
all of a "sudden"...
such is the required protagonist world
effort... to the local foundation:
shrunk... tailored...
what of south London?
what's there to south london?
is there a south london?
you, you sure?
south of the Thames...
Brixton... Vauxhall...
Mordor... Waterloo...
Clapham Junction... the Oval...
the moles of north London...
Kew Gardens... Kent buggers...
the whole lot of them:
trams! they all want over-ground trains
and trams! lobsided underground
traffic of north London...
garden-fetish spooks...
going to south London
is like visiting another country...
mind you... better watch it pass you
when taking a coach to
Canterbury...
the plateau expansion of this...
under-rated loop of
a suburbian flatland...

this is hardly a place
to live in...
it's a waiting line between what
arrives as living,
and leaves as remotely dead;
remotely...
in that death confiscates
a momentum from life
that the living cannot
translate into the dialogue
of the dead.