An observation
tower looms over the rush hour havoc, the Kings Cross lighthouse,
the old Bill use it for covert ops. Billion dollar brain,
Harry Palmer... The Scala, we used to go there in the late
80s for Schwarzenegger triple bills, Blade Runner post- apocalyptic
nightmares accelerating the comedown. Kings X is symbolic,
the archway I stole through to get to the promised land only
to be hurled out into a maelstrom of chicken bones and congealed
blood.
Arcade game violence
seeping through the cracks, threshold disintegrating.
I
weave through the ramshackle alleyways and takeaway miasmas
of Camden, dodging packs of drugged up kids. CANAL COLLECTIVE
SQUAT is now derelict but still quietly breathing under heaps
of detritus and giant hogweed. There were always punks necking
cider outside the front, a little nexus of mayhem, doors leading
to unknown pleasures and dangers and someone playing The Membranes
through broken windows.Camden is the cess pit playground you
are permitted to degenerate in. With its filth and grime,
the fabric of it is unmistakably London but the people possess
a provincial air, it's something about the haircuts, the BritPop
and Goth thing never going out of fashion, a ghoulish parade
of recuperated rebellion.
