Read introduction

A Brixton observation

Track Marks

Wonderlandby El 21 Aug 2013

She's this little old lady
Just a fucking little of woman. Innocent. Confused. Helpless.

Yet her feet are bare, that's the worst part, for me.
Brixton's sole story; trodden, peeling, flaking and scraping.

Her eyes tremor to match her body's movements,
Arms like a T-Rex. That's not a humorous similie at all, her arms hang from her shoulders, fucking useless and lacking the strength to pick up a cigarette butt.
Arms like a dying child.

Her veins are dead, the hairs on her skin, carelessly abandoned by her insides.
All that remains are track marks.
Deep, messy lines which make tears sting and thoughts ache.

The questions why? How? When? have all been considered.
But her eyes are dead.
The answers are dead.

Her hair is a wonderful mullet consisting of grey frizz.
But it's ruined by wandering rotten nails.

The wandering dead.

She scuffs across the road and shivers outside McDonald's in the 28 degree heat.
Rare burger juice trickles down her legs, which are otherwise pale like her hefty summer dress.
The dress is backwards and the flowers are so hard to make out, so faded, so saddened.

Who is this woman with the track marks?
This little old lady.