“ Baudelaire had gone further:
he had descended to the bottom of the
inexhaustible mine, had picked his way
along abandoned or unexplored galleries and had finally reached those districts of the sould where monstrous vegetations of the sick mind flourish.”
J.K.Huysmans. Against Nature.

This is my road, I walk through glistening hyperreal galleries to the locus of my heart’s desire. This glittering monad, I immerse myself in it: skin flashes back, light criss crosses in the afterglow. To be outside is to cease to exist. There is no outside.
Point out where the rupture begins, the boundless tremors and queasy subterranean shifts. See the encircled matrix on the planners board, the Elephant rebranded, South Central, the gateway to London ( European plaza and showpiece skyscrapers). Pause for consideration as high speed images of LA riots and towers of black smoke come cascading in ripping up the prissy Blairite scheme.

St. George the martyr, a marker. I sit with a tramp who cracks jokes, Jim Davidson circa 1981. Oversee the damp construction of another yuppie tower, “DEBTORS PRISON OPEN SOON” scrawled in indelible marker across the hoardings. Scaffolding spines are hastily rigged beyond the tobacconists and apothecaries of Tabard Street.
The squatted dental factory. Belway homes, a huddle of faux Georgian travesties sit arrogantly on that site where denture moulds were hurled at greasy baillifs.
52 Beckett House, Austin Osman Spare’s Alaphabet of Desire carved on dusty walls. Erasure and repetition, the ego at the brink of dissolution. “We are what we desire. Desire nothing and there is nothing you shall not realise’. The shifting unknowable topographies of Lovecraft, semiotic reconfigurations and dense showers of sigils oscillate and shimmer in the abandoned council flat.