Everything clumsy slow-motion,
I look for the source.
Buildings loom up like icebergs
On collision course.
I don’t want to go in there,
I just want to be alone,
Unpick the stitches of time
In London
In the no-go zone.
I’ve been kicking around like a dog,
Lost myself in the blank mass of fog,
It’s some kind of service.
All humanity’s fall-out is there,
Slumped in doorways
And mouthing cold air —
I have heard this.
Fogwalking, fogwalking.
Since the curfew
The streets are half-dead,
All the good folk asleep in their beds,
It’s so easy to go off the rails
When the fog spores
Are breeding inside by head.
Fogwalking: there’s a presence that I sense
Fogwalking: the neck muscles tense
Fogwalking: it’s right here inside me,
Try to find a defense — oh, no.
Fogwalking through the wreckage,
Fogwalking through the worm-eaten
Night Apple,
Fogwalking through what used to be
Whitechapel.