Occasional briefcases, carrier bags of dinner party foods and handbags of early commute makeup mirrors burst into the chaos of closing marketeers.
The leather coated Hindu chances spare pence from suited flocks that didn’t look down their noses outside the kebab shop at three in the morning that weekend.
Rotten fruits fill dustbins as tired dribble about exhausted celebrity sweeps amongst the ankles of pirate traders, angry little men beneath buckets of hair gel and traffic.
Stale lives in blue overalls linger, smoking on aged steps in shadows to monuments of the medicinal, along the way from the electric wheel-chaired drunks of a local mission.
To the supermarket, beer gardens glorified by text books of theft and murder, new conversions and done up dives above stores selling everything or nothing, crowds march their grind.
Shivering grins of the elite pile from taxis outside fully booked kitchens, no more indulging on the tongue than less esteemed eateries where tourists bite away.
Open plans of excess power up rolling stories of trauma as microwaves erupt plasticized cheeses and rubberized pasta across the street from where greens glint in neon light.
Electric gates thump closed secured heights of door chains, alarm clocks, ironed ties, organic bread bins, decorative book shelves and polished shoes.
The frown making stenches of morning breed to night bus hums as bone bags wake to mirrors, slide into cereal boxes, drown in soaps and wrap in uniform grin.