There are so many signs of trouble

The crows stop talking in immigrant hashmarks and speak only vaguealities in BBC English.

Hurled racial epitaphs of the urban ratboys impact, not passers by, but post boxes, telegraph poles. Teen earths noospheric hatefield by assaulting streetlamp screaming “you f*cking polish c*nt!”

The bus drivers sig saur is on top of the change machine behind the glass, not holstered like it should be.

Omnipresent asian Beatles pilgrims flee the scene.

The weekend loan shops silently shutter their doors.

People look up from their phones.

Free government lend-a-bikes auto breaklock to prevent collisions in expected fracas. Numerous falls, skinned knees.

Pigeon flock spirals through the darkening grey on a bed of breaksqueals from invisible gridlocked cars below.

The old man shouting ‘Echo’ behind the news stand silently stows his papers and extends his wheels.

 The rambling conversation of teenage girl groups orbits closer and closer to consensus reality, becomes aware, relevant to immediate circumstances.

The ghosts on the abandoned floors above shops press themselves against the black glass and do not flee your gaze.

Royal badges on post boxes police helmets and stamps briefly flicker with para-reality Stuart coat-of-arms. The Most Catholic Empire never ceases trying to overwhelm our reality and its influence seeps deeper in times of stress.

You can’t remember who the monarch is and do not know the face on coins. (See Above)

Mersey flows the wrong way.

Ferry seen though fog at the wrong time, seems to carry war damage, torn by shells.

Electrical bollards ascend and loudly deny entry to invisible vehicles.

The Yellow Man appears on pedestrian crossings between the green and red.

Revelling students wearing traffic cones walk out of empty club to find themselves in the middle of the day, break down, start crying.

The man with his legs on wrong is playing his pipes again. 

Clouds fill with nacreous, numinous yellow light, rain falls in bright sunlight at 75 degrees, looking like a gate of golden fire.

Squirrels. Evil evil evil evil.

Opposed rainbows, neither giving ground.

Scallies wait neatly at the cross light, preparing to move safely according to the rules.

Thick, grey clouds condense briefly from the tunnel air vents, then disperse.

Pre-recorded sales patter from in-store megaphone starts looping single sentence, compressing inevitably into single terrifying phrase.

Matrix van patrolling extra slow.

 Sugared doughnut sellers find machines producing oddly curved sigil-doughnuts.

Doors to windowed bar seem locked, people inside refuse to look round. No-one leaves or moves.

Light paths on the fruit machines start flashing subconscious warning patterns.

Pigeons riding bow wave of arriving tube train fly straight past you, out of station completely.