gallery road, someone has written, in reference to the huge colourful scrawls lining the no mans’ land between tracks and building site. NOT TRUE, i want to scream. galleries are not so organic.
greenlight leaning over the tracks, poised. another train hums casually over.
a man up ahead appears at first glance to be pissing, but actually he is sketching a bush. he is wearing earbuds. i wonder what he is listening to.
it’s too painful to stand on this viewing platform; the drilling is too loud. at least there is a creek today; it flows like a fat slug in the rain. brambles reach into the walkway and i find myself looking for the cracks, the in-between, the clues, caught between decimation and desolation.
this kind of barbed wire looks like a fleur de lis.
the smell of sawdust. cigarette butts and polystyrene. moudly apple core.
luxury flats overlooking the sewage treatment works.