The London Years

I’m breathless, Gasping, Suffocating, Winded. The air’s been struck out of me So I’m panting, Like the asthmatic that I’m not. I’m just thirsty for oxygen.

Hand plunged deep Into foamy, disarrayed, cleanest of all messes. -Fresh, citrusy, lukewarm- Stings her scratched up knuckles. Tired fingers handle thickly cut plates and wooden spoons

There’s something strange about this place, Between breathy dark and early dawn, A silence noisy with the whirring of restless minds. Night time never fully black In a city with insomnia.

So this woman came to school today to talk to us about sex. She brought a banana and a sock and said "what happens next?" Well Sophie’s hand shot...