London in L Minor
The city has been on my mind quite a bit lately. Why? Maybe because it’s one of the very few places I’ve been where I could imagine laying down roots. Maybe because I think it could save me from myself. I was going to send this next poem, entitled “London in L Minor” to the Bridport Prize. But come to think of it, my love for London is priceless. So here it is:
London is a lass
With a smile that’s very cruel and a jewel of an ass.
London’s slippery and lazy, London’s legs are like a cat’s.
She slips fingers in between, oh so sleepily in class.
She likes. She loves. She hates goodbyes.
She leaves you dead inside.
London’s thighs and London’s lies.
London lives and London writhes. London rides.
London whispers, London moans, London screams and cums and dies.
London even cries.
Little tears of crystal memories lingering like flies.
Licking boys and girls alike, every kind and every size.
London has antelope eyes.
She will take your tongue in cheek, she will press it with her lips.
And her nipples will befriend you if you nibble on the tips.
London lasts and never leaves, London’s moist and London drips.
Kindly, gentle, never jealous, London loves you with her hips.
London’s Lucy and Idil.
She’s Amina, she’s a thrill.
She’s a Brit and she’s Somali, she’s the folly of the kill.
London’s Indian and Arab, she’s luxurious and lush.
She’s the batting of an eyelash, she’s the climax, she’s a crush.
She’s a little doll in plush, she’s a slut, a royal flush.
She is lust, a piece of flesh, she’s a leopard, she’s a rush.
London is distilled from ladies, London is a heart of glass.
London leaps and London flies, dancing shadows does she cast.
One enchanting blossom, piece of flotsam from the past.
London is and London isn’t…
But London is a lass.