City of Hatred

"O City, city of hope and pain," asked I, the writing Fist, "when will I learn how to hate you again?

"London! Just a look over you, a listen to you, and the ways to hate you line up in a list.

  • The maurading dogs, snapping at feet.
  • The hypocrisy of fear and hurt, for we do not yet need reports like this.
  • The Friday night puke, still dotting the street.
  • The old shrew, moaning that she's late for her hair-do, should go first in the bus queue.
  • The sirens chasing the happy slappers, under hoods on stolen bikes down side-streets.
  • The boombox of the next beloved car, shouting of love clothes cars love in some song, almost drowning out stupidity and misery, and drowning the sound of the breeze rustling upon the leaves.
  • The piss-coated trunks of the remaining trees.
  • The hands of heat, palming dots of city dirt, slapping into sweats, itching the collar, clawing the neck.
  • Etc etc.
All things that might easily do the job. But they do not."

And the city does not answer. The church bells sing their chimes, of mysterious rites at mysterious times, while a child strolls the streets, made happy for the moment by an SMS text. All for her eyes, only, and then another and then the next. All day the planes plot graphs upon the sky, patterned with unknown cargoes of who's and why's. Surprise, city without answers; tonight I can only confess you my ignorance - something different, and harder to do, than the clichés of hate, or of hope, or of fists, or of fear, or of pain, that you may have gotten used to.