Peninsula purpose, games that we create and tables that we lay, windows that darken as boilers chug. Stone unturned and turned to stone. Grey statues with mildewed hint of angels’ wings. Leaves around the base that hold the river in their folds. Flowing to a place, arcing its back to the sound of planes that flight away to light.
Practice what you preach, pray for what you need and nothing more. The circle on the ground that marks a beginning. Bright centre holds as we walk by, and wonder at what was there.
Rising up from the chamber of the tube. Taking moving steps two at a time. Reaching the light of the tube top. People watching to see who’s on tonight at the O2. Who are these people? What unites them? Goth wearing teenagers keeping ten paces behind protective dads taking them to their first gig.
And then outside, burgers till dawn at the single London Diner. Apeing Manhattan street style, but there is only one. And down past endless carparks, blanks space and hard core mats. Used to pay to park and go no further.
Alison, 01.10.08
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