This is the street.
This is the dream.
A world of façades, bleached and peeled, where nothing’s ever as it seems.
The nightmare of the Fun House, of the gothic painted schlock.
The laughing clowns in yellow windows, and the butcher’s chopping block.
The terrace of the harpies where at nightfall junkies park,
Concrete faces caked in blusher, shrieking loudly in the dark.
These are the shades where blind fools tread.
The council row.
The living dead.