London (or The Vultures in My Heart)

London.

warm and polluted

and on fire with

civility

the afternoon burns

to dusk

without notice

the city full with

hanging flesh

and beats of fashion

addicts

beggars

women so fucking amazing

they’re almost weird looking

walking with my buddy I haven’t seen for

24 years

but we picked up right where

we left off

no weird adjustment

no bullshit changes

nothing to prove

walk an hour

drink

talk about metal

the continuity of Slayer

about the decline of Metallica in

1991

and about

his wife and kid

my dogs

America

the sickened state of politics

but mostly about the good things

old jokes reborn

people of the past resurrected

and laughed at further

destroying time with each

raise of the glass

each inside joke

each look of disgust

at a hipster

or a crackhead

but all good shots aside

watching the city darken

and get colder

the moon bringing out the

mirror of the Thames

shot down the stress vultures

in my heart

the faces of them

the slimy feel of them

all the goddamn fucking

bullshit I’ve put up with

or dealt out

but mostly put up with

sitting there in the pauses

between jokes

between stories

feeling my skin

grow younger

my blood run

cleaner

the wind of the world

and the blink of time

for which

we survive and live

the sunsets across the

shores, the cities, the moon

shining down

on all of us there

the people of London

so quick

polite

easy on the eyes

and stomach

the vultures

in my heart

dead over the

dark hills.