Frankham Street smells like an armpit.
Further along this devolves into garam masala and chlorine.
The arches of the train track are all dripping mildew and piss.
Techno scrawled over techno in different coloured paint.
GCHQ= STATS! in melting white.
The roof drips into tiny gravel pits, makes pigeons jump.
A huge crude face on one, tentacles on the next.
Wake up? in red.
Plants burst through cracks in the brick.
A train thunders overhead.
I step into a cloud of mosquitoes.