School 1

Faker school as sodden as old grey piss sulks, mean, as mean as millionaires, as scummy and downtrodden as a dirt, downright nasty really and all grapplefucked and grey. Seems to have been rained on especially just to make it more full of misers plus an eternal grey kind of after-rain mist which clouds about the heads of fools. This wing and that wing cluttered out of concrete and sorrowful sheet steel rusted and peeling plus dumb nightmare pebbles all seditious and doomed.
Seedy raw plastered fuckup school as cold as death. Mendacious teachy freaks mongering behind tinctured bronze windows. School is nothing but the messy bleakness of a hawknosed vulture teacher, nothing but the sound of a frightened abandoned youth weeping.
There were two sets of old rusted iron swings, a mottled cracked-up hoarse old concrete floor likewise all patched up and dumb and a seesaw and roundabout. The whole area was so immensely gloomy and drippy and crap that you felt you had a right to kill yourself there, as if all the sog and sinewed trash of endless rains would permit it. The swing frame once painted bright red but now all rusted and blotched and burned with a million leprous oxides which give it all a disappointed look of infinite neglect. The sad plastic seat of the seesaw all cracked and dewdropped itself like a symbol of anguish is a bright unnecessary orange. All the pissy grasspatch of endless guttering flow in the grime of puddlepuddlepuddle. Fagdoups and spent anguished crackpot cokecans huddled all night under the bronze and shifting clouds. Even the roundabout seems to be infected with an odd kind of rainwet addict disgust, is never used but for dumb little kids who get delirious here and vomit on the bright green grass.
As wide as a pit of shit and as toughed-up and sleazed on as so much murk.
The swingseats are made out of tragic rubber.