Soho’s walls wrap themselves round me
like a spiders web clutching a fly to its bosom and
as I hang over the streets I’m choked
by the cancer filled air preparing me for my doom.
There’s no sky in Soho only shadows splattered
across pavements glinting from shopfront lights
and there’s no wind in Soho only
stale air seeping from shop doorways.
Soho is a limbo land where
reality is a mirror and people know
everything is today and there’s no tomorrow
the only guilty secrets are unforgotten memories.
Days in Soho are an endlessly unchanging
search for novelty which becomes
frantic and tawdry turning my brain into a shell
I whimper: kill me, kill me now.