Spotlight.

 

A silver mic stands

In the centre of the spot.

 

Cleo walks on, wearing a jacket,

Hands it pockets.

Squints into the darkness

Beyond the lights.

Brings up right hands

To shield her eyes.

 

Cleo:

Hello.

 

Reverb from mic.

Cleo laughs.

 

Cleo:

Awesome.

 

Cleo puts her hand

Back in her pocket.

Clears her throat.

Breathes deeply.

Begins.

 

Cleo:

I grew up in a time

Of phone box bombs

And car alarms

Relative arrests

While I lived my little rebellions

In sweat-slicked basements

I loved London

For it’s accepting

Of misfits and oddities

Surrounded by High He-Elles

Death-throw punk

And Anarchist folk

Unaware of my majority

I drank my priorities

Toasting the damaged and the different

That world withered

When things could only get better

I still love London

But tolerance spread thin

Is not acceptance

Is not delight in the power

And beauty of humanity

Worn out profanity

Smeared on North London walls

Or Union flags flaring

Over nostalgia pasted over

With the colonial semantics

Pretending to be political discourse

 

Cleo opens the zip on her jacket. Underneath is all wires and tubes. She pulls a button on a wire from her pocket and holds it in her left hand.

 

Cleo:

So I say no

In the only way you understand

Heart in hand

And finger on the button

All for love

So you decide

Is your mind closed

Or is London is open?

 

Cleo raises her left arm into the air.

 

Cleo:

Well?

Is it?

 

Blackout.