What I Learned from Johnny Bevan
Luke Wright

To London then, that fatted beast
on which the whole world comes to feast,
all private woe and public farce;
where money twerks its oiled arse
in gorgeous, fenced-off Georgian squares
and starchy oligarchical lairs;
where soaring, steel-glass towers sit
in ancient, ghoulish, plague-filled pits;
where gap-toothed roads left by the Blitz
are soaked in years of pigeon shit;
where listless folk roam airless malls
as slaves to airbrushed siren calls
then, gobsmacked, flash their plastic cash
and fill their hearts and lungs with ash;
where policy is signed and sealed
then forced upon the shires and fields;
where money men spin even more
from love of it and fear of war
(like bookie blokes they will their stocks
as food bank queues ring grotty blocks);
where cut-glass vowels meet glottal stops;
where half-cut kids in chicken shops
dream dreams as false as talent shows,
these rebels wrapped in branded clothes,
this lunar race illuminated
by their screens but never sated,
all within their reach at last
but safe behind the steel-laced glass —
it’s oh so close but out of touch,
it’s not for you, they know that much,
it’s not for you, it’s not for you,
it’s not for you...
                                 to London then.