My city never got out of its
angry teenager phase.
It keeps playing its music too loud.
Keeps walking head down, keeps smoking.
It keeps thinking that’ll make it cool.
My city will never admit it’s a drug addict.
Always denies it’s an alcoholic.
My city claims it can stop at any time.
Will always say someone else is worse than them.
My city can’t help but keep talking to that girl at bar.
Keeps confusing ‘No’ for ‘Try Harder’.
My city slurs its speech on a daily basis.
Keeps insisting its fine,
keeps trying to hide anger in its decibels.
My city keeps getting into fights.
Keeps wearing its knuckles down to the bone
keeps insisting that it doesn’t need to go see a doctor.
Keeps reminding me of its past success’ like
‘Remember that time I was the Olympics?
When I held culture in an East London frying pan
and served everyone a meal of acceptance.’
‘And remember that time when I elected a muslim mayor?
How can I be racist?’
My city is ashamed of its weakness.
Armed with two fingers ready to cover ear drums,
mouth ready to down you out with La La La’s
if you dare speak out of turn to it.
And I know my city is a dick.
But I have fallen in love with every spot on his face.
Every cracked pavement scar on his skin.
With his car stutter cough, his TFL vein
My city is far from perfect
which makes it perfect for me.