If your city never sleeps, it needs a doctor

An obese city never sleeping,
Shitting in the Thames.
It bloats with poverty and weeping
Even as its skin distends.

As fleets of flabby pre-fab flats
Flow out across the flattened hills,
We’ll all ignore the City’s sickness,
And fail to heal her ails and ills.

A pomp-pocked, prettied pestilence,
She wears a cheap cologne:
Of corporate souls, and things she stole
From cultures not her own.

For all her gawdy-tawdry masses,
Less is more and more’s the pity
Such a vileness underscores
Our poorly painted prosti-city.


This is a little thing I wrote about London. There are good bits to London too, but it’s difficult to see how we can continue to swell the population and polution in our cities with the overwhelming volume of damning research on the subject. And yet we do.

Anyhow, comments and criticism welcome – either leave a comment below, or chat to me on Twitter @Sellpen 🙂

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