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#37. BEHIND CLOSED DOORS edifice
artifice
all these cellular voids
within urban abyss
orangey haze of developing dawn
whilst no-one was lookin’
they’ve been taking ‘em down
during the night another mysteriously gone
only doorways remain, stained, squalid, folorn and the glass gridded backdrop to a victorian row left vacant and stranded with nowhere to go
hovering steam clouds from roof plants drift coming down shoreditch toward the city dayshifts iced over spillages on beer swilling streets chewing gum confetti, perception oblique
what is it actually that makes this city
the void space that buildings fracture
or the buildings themselves all huddled together in amongst all these forms that contaminate
the line of the sky
lie the leftover places, those overlooked inmates the simmering below the polished surface
body shop repairs in railway arches expectant desolation
of vacant plot car parks
car chasing corridors following high level tracks
and battered padlocked screens of corrugated tin cobbles through tarmac
side streets used as bins
the silence of the lonesome alley
the reclusive dusty dated attics
the empty tombs of basement damp
the crumbling cellar with it’s window ramp
the cavernous sewer so big to stand in
the precarious fire escape with it’s grated half landings the hint of tiles and uses past
standing dormant within times rust
a shady recess that helps conceal
so too the deep window reveal
things built for purpose, exist unwitting
offer imaginative others the chance of ceilings concrete hulk of functional flyover
or a cover, to the space over, which it hovers the up-lit warmth of brick arched vaults liberate locations of night-time assaults
the under bridge book market fair
the descending of a spiral stair
carved out the corner of bank’s plinth
leads down to an old-fashioned railway compartment ergonomics and small comfort levels
fashioned from mechanical engineering’s tunnels
long and narrow, once gas lit passages backyard beer gardens
overlooked by former coach house galleries glass squares let slip
there’s something going on beneath the pavements
the subterranean blues of public toilets
and those beamed down, quasi-futuristic single loos
there’ll be only a coin and a door sequence between them and you walkways littered with an array of cubicles
the half curtained privacy of the photo booth ‘n call girl scenes in telephone boxes
to the back seat shelters of passing taxis
locked kiosk sellers selling standards
reminds of games hiding in under stair cupboards
the now occupied, disused, glazed-brick station frontage the lure of the unknown still waiting to be discovered memories from the country manor house
priest holes, turrets and false wooden panels
hollow tree trunk carved out by lightning
the tree house, the tent, and fragile protection the hum and horns re-instate the town the spire and bell tower that have always known
held hostage by what’s more eagerly on show they signal that there’s something hidden epitaph paved graveyards and bodies buried round tiny courts inviting benches echoing footsteps and piss-stained lunches
backs of mews, furtive roof top views
watching through the confines of a top floor hatch glimpse others blissfully unaware their now made public private affairs those accidental ‘Rear Window’ meetings
in a world that exists way above the streets and
pan back down
and here’s the monument beyond
the old church portico that was long ago the old bridge gate a column that remembers the destruction of a previously half timbered human scaled city long since misplaced but set in stone, a tiny wooden door through which it suggests there’s something more ascend a winding secret stair a lookout! (look there’s people up there)
the beckoning decent into the underground lair
leaves behind whole worlds so many to which only some will ever be privy
within this behind-closed-doors and concealed city