High Rise Legends

London growls under the tread of diesel driven dreams. A stork visits, an attic full of discarded toys. White mice sleep in pajamas, made of childish nightmares. Barges reek still, just as when, sweat was as common as dirt. A window in Baker Street, opens to let pipe smoke out, it uncoils in the air like a left-handed genie. Meat mongers return to their, gore-soaked cradles before the dawns leery light. The city is a fable, there is fuel oil seeping, through tunnels and runnels, where entrenched gutter snipes lie low and wait. Denizens' crabwalk along Regents Street barking Chinese commands at oppressed corgis. Stately towers are pressure washed, until they shed a dark sunlight that fractures ferrous raindrops. Tenements sink under the weight, of red carpets until the blood flows out of them. London by night, is a veneer, a crust of low expectations.