To London

It was necessary to move, and at this exit the beggar, cross-legged at the fork of the tunnel, calls out Love! A welcome, of sorts. The night light fucks the suburb into nightmare familiarity — not like a shrammed nerd touting guided walks and histories that contract imagination for demolition work, levelling today's housing, restoring common greens, lingering at sites orphaned of their fever hospitals — by no means that hyperliterate, poor entrepreneur — It is the view, the barbed wire roaring into view round and round the playground walltop. It is the warehouse, warehouse windows blank of occupation. It is lives, lives supplied in great number, fulfilment of numbers. It is the sense of something shared — the tailor scissors razoring open fishmouth stitches, the sewn-up pocket of the new suit, and finding something — But it is new, all new, even the gangs who graffiti chimneys scrubbed and lovely, deleted like the railways delete repeatedly the head, the occasionally payrolled head, the feet of the quartered commuters, of the vertebral week.