![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Sep. 22nd, 2025 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apiphileI have been counting To Let signs
This city of closed doors and bolted locks, shuttered windows, sleeping eyes without intent; this metropolis of empty shops, whose doorways bristle with second-hand tents, where showroom-perfect flats devoid of life collect no rents; where a few thousand scrape sleep from the paving slabs each night and stuff it daily into public lavs alongside their gut parasites;
This unfortressed home of cut-and-paste commerce, repeating like a bad kebab in sixty different orders on every street; gates opened to migrating labour and attracting only far-right 'saviours' with bricks in hand, drifting within our sour and hate-filled island nation; our withering home, our post-midnight disintegration.
Our diplomatic crows and uneducated pigeons prowl the parks in search of crumbs denied to John and Abdul on the main road, their cups empty, their lungs full.
Here I will not be buried; here they will disregard my every dying wish, fling me to the plagueless pit, the bonfire of the trannies, in a smoke screen of tyranny.
But what better ending?
To fade out, in the parade of coughing shades haunting the Strand; to stumble cocaine-fast into the open-sewer Thames, silted up with the ever-increasing greed of navy-blue men; or perish, hard-hearted, from the arteroschlerosis of indifference, my money-gilded foot pressed to the throat of the city?
No thanks; give me two tides upside-down by the riverbank, and I'll retire.
This city of closed doors and bolted locks, shuttered windows, sleeping eyes without intent; this metropolis of empty shops, whose doorways bristle with second-hand tents, where showroom-perfect flats devoid of life collect no rents; where a few thousand scrape sleep from the paving slabs each night and stuff it daily into public lavs alongside their gut parasites;
This unfortressed home of cut-and-paste commerce, repeating like a bad kebab in sixty different orders on every street; gates opened to migrating labour and attracting only far-right 'saviours' with bricks in hand, drifting within our sour and hate-filled island nation; our withering home, our post-midnight disintegration.
Our diplomatic crows and uneducated pigeons prowl the parks in search of crumbs denied to John and Abdul on the main road, their cups empty, their lungs full.
Here I will not be buried; here they will disregard my every dying wish, fling me to the plagueless pit, the bonfire of the trannies, in a smoke screen of tyranny.
But what better ending?
To fade out, in the parade of coughing shades haunting the Strand; to stumble cocaine-fast into the open-sewer Thames, silted up with the ever-increasing greed of navy-blue men; or perish, hard-hearted, from the arteroschlerosis of indifference, my money-gilded foot pressed to the throat of the city?
No thanks; give me two tides upside-down by the riverbank, and I'll retire.
