Written by Kirsty Allison on Wednesday the 7th of July 2010
Written on a Night Bus from Liverpool Street to
Ealing, first published in Islington Zine, a project by CSV/Springboard that Kirsty used to faciliate. It felt so exclusive to ride through the
London night, The N11 bus rode higher than the net of those fishing in crack pipe light
This confident orange roar swirled and
licked at parties behind closed doors,
The elusive promise of London, every kiss
and shop begging more, more, more.
But across the window panes of the silver
flanked stairs of Trafalgar Square
Christtelnacht terror reigned in the
reflection of Nelson's hard glare,
The Queen struck her gilded telescope down
her drive of old Pall Mall
Had her people revolted, or was her CCTV
feed plain unwell?
Evil orange burned along the glass with
Schwartzenegger power, Was it an inferno from the moon, shooting
shards of marigold flowers?
The National Gallery's collection froze,
oil eyes of history in despair
The stories their pictures told could soon
be polluted air
The homeless laughed almighty as the fire
licked their tinnies and sleeping bags They'd lost far more than priceless
canvases fizzling under the ferocity of the nation's flags
But as the window panes danced, shining,
ready to break
It was clear London city will never burn
again, it just bathed in a neon lake.