Jus now i had a conversation with Thomas De Quincey
in the Magnificent Seven, Old Brompton actually
talking crows talking clouds
as i dazed off in a bench with shrieking twilight
and the trees of Lady Anne, sweet lady Anne
so like a cloud that pervails time
face forming in a river or dream
saw her near the graffiti glows
witha gentle hand fading like the skies
above the London Town.
Thomas told me that the opium underground
lives like tube dreams that tunnel streching through
new strobes and oyster cards. Bespeaking of
a gray light that never dies.
I said that i am postmodern brat but even so
i like to surf the clouds with a wicked eye.
He would not defer but still i knew we were the same
woefully, passing by like Stendhals glass.
So mate rememember what the dragon said
to the shadow, you are my house and iam thee light.