inventive, slyly mocking
names mask an unplanned
rush skyward: high price, high rise
flats for rich foreign investors who
won’t be living there. Over 200 towers
coming, 20 to 60 storeys of badly-sited
carbuncles, pock marking the skyline. Their
indifference to their neighbours disheartens.
Last year, the unfinished Fryscraper magnified
sunbeams into deathrays, melting parked cars.
Greed sticks its shiny fingers up, it licks the city,
casts avaricious shadows disfiguring posterity.