Notes From An Underpass.

The subjects in this note include suicide and prostitutes.
I searched for images; all I got was a pile of sickness and bullshit.
All the prostitute pictures were of cliched 'glamour', and suicide was a subject google seemed to want to avoid at all costs.

Driving back from the coast at 2am last week, I saw quite a few of the people who had already spilled out of the clubs.
A fat girl in hotpants was staggering drunkenly down the street with her consort, staying determinedly upright despite her inebriation in her dogged walk towards her few moments of whatever they had planned.
She probably didn't love him. He probably didn't care for her.
But they had jolly well gone out to a club, met each other, and were now going to do something they would work at not regretting; for what is the English world but a place where even these stolen pleasures would be taken away from you by the bastards if you didn't seize them and hang on.
But it wasn't exactly a dream come true was it?

Cut back to a year ago.

The traffic was jammed up.
When I saw the dead body under the tarp I knew why.
A jumper.
A pair of cold, thin legs protruded;wearing those wedge-like sandals.
A prostitute.

You see this is what makes me sick to see the bollocks glamour photos; a prostitute in downtown England is someone who has been lured into a descent, kicked and nudged by drugs if necessary, necessary to kill self-respect and necessary to hide from it when catching sight in a stray mirror.

They have bare, bruised legs, the quicker to get naked and to inject.
They have those wedge-sandals, because they are told by their lying exploiters that they make them 'tall and long-legged'.
Also they can slip them off quicker when things get industrial.
Their faces are usually old.

Their hair usually hangs down to their waist, because the rule of thumb fetish for pimps is the 'beauty' of long hair.
Besides, how else could you tell they are women, let alone human?

Anyway, sometimes they see the truth.
Like the poor beggar on the road.

Just remember this; they are all somebody's daughter.
And no human born of woman starts out heading in the direction they end up taking.

So some bloody net curtain-twitching bastards declare them illegal, because they are a reminder that their rotten bloody garden gnomes don't really make the world laugh with you.

And in a socialist paradise like England, there can be no economic motive; so it must be sheer devillishness of living here then.