London Calling
Some people see race
Some people see class
Some people see religion.
Some people see all three
And make a counterfeit informed decision about your upbringing.
In order to package it into a box
Gaffa taping the flaps
And placing it onto a shelf
With millions of  other boxes
Categorised and sub-categorised with the precession of German engineering.

Some boxes don't fit their space.
Some boxes need to find another place.
Whether or not it's miscellaneous.

Some say,
Living is like a box.
According to the box.

Outside the M25
Believe it or not
Life exists.
Restricted to the drips from the city's residue.
London's heat creates a condensation
That provides a smoke screen
That some call
The suburban dream.
I pricked that little bubble,
Because there weren’t enough holes in the commuter belt
To keep me from being exposed.

The fire in my belly
Was on the verge of being extinguished.
Ready to relinquish any creativity
And submit to a well doctored dose
Of docile normality.
Revolving round the security of a reasonable salary
Whatever is on the telly
Holidays to Malaga
And a small town mentality.

I had to escape for my sanity.
Make a break for the city
Where hostility
Forms the reception committee
But hostility creates
Or breaks
An attitude that wants to set the pace,
Wants to win the race
Then keep on running.

The fight for space keeps the fire in my belly burning.
The competitive nature draws creators
Innovators and paper chasers.
Consumer and commuters wanting a piece of the pie.
Opportunities arise
To match the heights.
Of iving in a high rise.
In my eyes
This is where I need to be.
I don't know if it's where I belong
But I'm here to figure that out.

The heat keeps the flame from going out.
When the fires out,
I'm out.
ready to call it quits.
I've got nothing against my small town upbringing
But for me my little box just didn’t fit.

The ability to exist and not be seen.
The ability to find a scene within a scene that suits your means.
The ability to be seen and leave a dream.
The ability to get on a bus and see a scene, that back home you only see on a screen.
The ability to witness poverty and wealth on the same street and measure the extremes.
The ability to be in a city with a queen.
The ability to become a fiend, regardless of means.
The ability in London, to end every single sentence
With yea, safe, bless, sweet, yagetme, still, scene
And most people understanding what you mean.
Do you know what I mean?

Someone once told me
That Holywood,
An apparent city of dreams,
Behind the scenes
Can be a haven for drug addicts, prostitutes and abject poverty.

For some,
I understand London living can be a cruel lottery.
You don't know when your numbers are up.
For me
Whatever my luck
I know in this city I have a better chance
Of finding a space for my box.
Whether or not,
It's cardboard city or Kensington.

If not
I might as well go back
To my place of birth
Close the flaps on my box
And suffocate with gaffer tape
Consumed with bitterness
About how much I don't like the place
And If I was given half a chance
I could have been someone.

Well enough of that
I'm up in London now
There's work to be done.