London Calling Poem by Jack Turner

London calling
it's smokers lungs bleating
in sharp consonants, lulling vowels
a mother's voice calling to her bosom
a pillow
in the City of Dreams

The wordless fields, speechless roads
gape and swallow like a hungry fish
The empty air echoes, taunts
and jeers

at night the small stone walls turn into brick
and pavements grow from grass
and orange faces peer red-eyed
through the dark

the twigs crack underfoot
brittle fingers like the lies
that keep me

and night time calls again