Red, red wine...

London is like the cold, wet drizzle of my cubist, wild dreams.

London screams at me, in fifteen foreign silvered tongues, each more candied than the next.
London stares at me, as I stare at the words on its walls, purple and red with fire and swollen grime.
London makes love to me, as it sings three balconies away from me, touching my head, my hands, more intimately than any lover could. Feeling and looking deep into my filled heart, coiling itself around me. Drinking the deep red night in, after and breathing the long and langourous drags of smoke that unfurl with heady, sudden rushes.
London is soft, slow, sweet jazz, as sexy as the dimmed city and its glorious long legs. London is techno and the feeling of electronic desire, pulsing through your fingertips.
London is the old market of what is never on its way out and hardly ever in. What matters is the refurbished.
London takes its time. Even as it threatens to hurry you out of its way, afraid you will spill its morning coffee, steaming at its edges.
London is warm, like sex and good food. London is ice and whatever else is cutting edge.
London is the papery edges of a rare shop around the corner, hidden like the olive nestled between our martinis.
London is my midnight, the one I cannot sleep through. London is my new friend, who I share my tea, and laughs with.
London looks at me over the heads of those we do not know, but see. London winks at me, as glib as a stranger, intimate as a sock.
London is my lover, the one I never may know.
London is my fantasy, the one I easily shock.
London is their style, as they walk across these years.
London is my freedom, the one I may not tire of.