London on a tight schedule

Dosing in and out
of consciousness
with the relative
awareness of
the slow, subtle
pace of my heart,
asking myself
in all fairness
why is it that
the kids who
seem the happiest
run the hardest
towards the balcony?
My mind isn't helping
me, nor them as they
break the mould
while they break
the cement,
never realising
that genius
often comes
with a tourniquet  
without
the sense that
it's all betterment
in the end if you
rise from the
smoke filled friends.

Seeing them
running from
corner to corner
with the jingle
of loose change
and thinking change never
seems to far away.

Piece by piece, breaking
off bits of themselves
to get by daily and deal
with the fray as the dealers
say stay for another,
so they watch
London on a tight schedule
from french bay windows,
dosing in and out
of consciousness while
never noticing
that the syringe
seems to be
never too far
from their grasp.


People told me
my generation
won't out live
the previous,
in all seriousness
who would want too
when you can be alone
in the busiest city
in Europe?