Suburb of London.
Shopping centres have spires
like churches.
Streets are lined with
ashcan buildings -
deposited by some unseen,
ashen hand.
Clouds of grey
descend upon London,
and wills of white
walk on black streets -
bleak with stodgy
unchange.
We live in porridge -
time is sticky,
and change's texture
is like a mire.
Dead town,
lift me up.
Dead town,
motorway-bound,
lift up your dregs
from the streets
and throw them
into London.
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