Hard Landing

Emerging from clouds at the bullet rate of descent
the circuit board of the city fires dull synapses 
into something like life,

heavy lids barely flicker,
and my tongue feels thicker
than that of Jamie fucking Oliver.

The Thames at East India dock, 

is an abandoned tie,
snaking like forgotten responsibility 

around guilty banks.

Somewhere in there
they’re totting up the debt.

Somewhere skeletons don furs
and dance in their closets.