Witching hour, ’round here, is populated with painted up, erotic creatures and amphetamine ghouls sliding through shadows and streetlight, in a peripheral line of sight like child-catching, tophatted dodgers with flapping-coated, green-grinning eyes as sunken as pin-pricks in a starless night humming with yellow-lit trains and the funky brass of endless traffic, always out of view, but therehere in Bush Road – just beyond midnight.
And see Christine, an anarcho-artist from Budapest, wearing a sleeveless black vest where her pet rats live, occasionally popping out from between her breasts to lick spit from her lips. See her standing beneath a lamppost, showering in dull, electro-jungle light – hands on her hips, not selling, just showing, because the street is our canvas, our screen-and-stage and Christine is on shift, it’s her time-age now. This art lives and moves like the flow of lava-lights from the nineteenth floor. It is as humid and sudden as tonight.
And Number 10 is up to its tricks again, lights ablaze and speakers up full and windows open, and the glass-pane bass of its urban refrain shaking neighbours neighbours, if they were in but its all out as the heat trickles like sweatsparkle spores, and there’s corner bars that spill their warmth ’cause they’re straining at the walls with the shape of late-night customers, who may arrive alone, but bring in their stories like buildings – within buildings made of concrete and stone.
A roundorange moon between flowering towers, which a chopper dissects and the river reflects in a shit-brown mirror full of faces and insects – tidal, so it sweeps all that infects this godawful place to the sea. All you need protect from the man in the alley is your daughters – and your whole point of view. No room for doubt, at this time, in this place with so much happening, creeping in every space, you glimpse from the edge of your eye some seedy disgrace against a backwall. You know plenty who never pay rent, unless it’s by the hour.
Some say Monique is a car-crash but no-one drives ’round here, it’s clear to me she’s a power outage – a blown valve in a Vox amp. She hangs out with camp, wasted boys who disguise their misfortunes with foundation and eye-shadow, and wits sharp enough to cut through the toughest hides. So Monique regularly slides in and out of our world and theirs and one day she’ll wake to find her brains fried, so far does she hurl herself come the fall of darkness across rippling moontides.
And Archie-Jack, with sloping shoulders and hunched, furtive back comes scuttling under the bridge, carrying dozens of small paper wraps. He possesses measures of what everyone lacks to make tonight go with a bang, illicit pleasures, there’ll be plenty of fangs sunk in sweet, soft necks after Archie-Jack has scattered his treasures…