This was recently published in the London Zine – a magazine I facilitate, sponsored by Islington Council (through Springboard/CSV, providing media access and training).

It felt so exclusive to ride through the London night,

The N11 bus rode higher than the net held by those fishing in crack pipe light

This confident orange roar swirled and licked at parties behind closed doors,

The elusive promise of London, every kiss and shop begging more, more, more.

But across the window panes of the silver flanked stairs of Trafalgar Square

Christtelnacht terror reigned in the reflection of Nelson’s hard glare,

The Queen struck her gilded telescope down her drive of old Pall Mall

Had her people revolted, or was her CCTV feed plain unwell?

Evil orange burned along the glass with Schwartzenegger power,

Was it an inferno from the moon, shooting shards of marigold flowers?

The National Gallery’s collection froze, oil eyes of history in despair

The stories their pictures told could soon be polluted air

The homeless laughed almighty as the fire licked their tinnies and sleeping bags

They’d lost far more than priceless canvases fizzling under the ferocity of the nation’s flags

But as the window panes danced, shining, ready to break

It was clear London city will never burn again, it just bathed in a neon lake.

For nightlights are the only reflection upon the streets and atop the plinth

Nightlife is guided by these torches to steer us through the city labyrinth