London is a wonderful place, where roads are backwards, people have funny accents, money is a unit of weight, and nirvana hits you in a snow-covered park at dawn. These things happen when you’re living in the Neo-Roman birthplace of both Shakespeare and Cromwell; Monarchy and Parliament; Industry and Aestheticism. Not that these are all unique to England, per se: I only mean to say that the juxtaposition is what seems to create the harmony that’s everywhere here. It’s really been a great place to be, and it’s not like pictures or words can adequately describe the experience of it (try as I might). Especially not those movies where American girls visit London and mess around with those guards with bearskin hats and fully automatic rifles in order to make them crack a smile or something; I’ve seen those guards in person, and I don’t even want to look at them wrong, much less screw around with them or their hats. Those guys look like they killed a bear themselves in order to make their silly hats and wouldn’t hesitate to make a matching one from a silly tourist. They probably chew bullets instead of gum.
Anyway, a poem. The relevance to London is tangential. By tangential, I mean it’s not London-themed at all and I just wrote it just now while living in London.
‘Cause quiet fools have longer lives.