London where at night dylan thomas bites the calves of his white muses by day, the quarantine sky is teeming with life – ravens and glarus fly in the negative sea, in the non-sea above the horizon london, where I meekly play music for the elephant in the room he never forgets that's why I choose the most delicate sounds for him - a glass tyke with a red halo of freedom around his forehead, tucked away in a flat on Burdett Road, too big to jump out of the window and yet there is some great synchronicity in it slowly bleed, the orchid slowly blooms I eat a slice of Lutenica and wait for the moon in the window frame and I hope I don't see a plane in times of global quarantine, I'd be dying to know where are his passengers going does life really go on the unbearable joke of being - we have an expiration date shorter than the questions
