I Heart London
Shiny shoes and pale, weary faces on the six o'clock from Waterloo. Trashy newspapers and glossy novels. Suicide-inducing shop talk. That harsh white light, just as bright when you close your eyes. Outside, the stench and smoke of London. Sprawling, subterranean, sewer-bred beast. Foul cement-and-steel squid of dirty train lines and dreary crescents, car-choked roads and filthy canals. Disgusting mass of humanity — great mounds of human fungus, breeding on the Kraken's skin. The reek of perfume and aftershave, whorish lipstick on a pox-scarred face. London hasn't changed since Hogarth and Dickens. Same squalid heap of dwellings and disease, hypocrisy and greed. Same absurd belief in makeup and paint to hide its hideousness, its ghastly monotony, its debauchery and decay. Same adolescent delusion of glamour — as if this cesspool of prostitutes and pollution could ever be glamorous. And then the monstrous snobbery of the London rich, their pampered children, their palatial, walled-off homes.
These beautiful, elegant women you see at every turn in London, sitting on the bus, stepping out of offices, pressing leaflets into the hands of passers-by. Pornographic nurses on a cholera ward. Diamonds floating down an open sewer. You soon grow numb to their glitter. They cannot dazzle you to the true, repugnant face of the city. The moral and physical corruption. The naked greed. The fetid air. The rainbow of prostitution, from the violet night of Soho blowjobs to the red hell of Canary Wharf.
The London Overground: tentacles reaching from a corpse's cunt.