London calling <br />it's smokers lungs bleating <br />in sharp consonants, lulling vowels <br />a mother's voice calling to her bosom <br />a pillow <br />in the City of Dreams <br /> <br />The wordless fields, speechless roads <br />gape and swallow like a hungry fish <br />The empty air echoes, taunts <br />and jeers <br /> <br />at night the small stone walls turn into brick <br />and pavements grow from grass <br />and orange faces peer red-eyed <br />through the dark <br /> <br />the twigs crack underfoot <br />brittle fingers like the lies <br />that keep me <br /> <br />and night time calls again<br /><br />Jack Turner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/london-calling/
