Blade Runner

Red Glass and Grey Skies

In the wet souped‑up streets where the high‑street lorries skid,
the air tastes of burnt petrol and electrolite.
Neon signs flicker in steel‑black colour,
casting a jaundiced glow over a city that never feels dry.

I walk with a film‑camera in one hand, a chrome heartbeat in my chest,
the underside of London's underground humming like a languishing city.
The replicants—flesh‑plus‑lodic circuitry, faking longevity—
breathe the same smog as the humans who call them, "fancy‑dancers."

The Police, a blur of uniforms and chrome, patrol the dim half‑lit avenues,
their weapons tucked under sweater‑jackets, their guns unbulked.
They say we run the lines of fate; their gaze is colourless, already broken.

I feed the old cigarettes into my mouth, the tobacco that smells faintly of rain,
asking for the truth in a bar of neon‑dark wire.
An air‑span corridor above the Thames bleeds warm amber light,
as the world below whispers, "Run ... Run."

The blade of my foresight cuts past data streams,
I am the only one who can read the impending horrors of those we fear.
Do we let them, in this grey existence, take the company?
Or we stand and thrive… all the same.