I wrote this free-verse poem as part of an assignment for my English class after reading the Fallen London wiki page on Irrigo. I know some things I wrote aren’t canonically correct or aren’t specified in canon, but I think they work well.
Irrigo
I emerge from my lodgings at the top of the Fallen City.
The current hour is what passes for midnight here.
A variety of foul odours rise up from the factories and tanneries below.
A few lost spirits tug at the edges of my worn-out greatcoat.
The air is thick with Irrigo as it drips from the spaces between the false stars.
It is the colour of forgotten things.
It is the colour of absence.
I walk down the path to the river.
Tombstones have been pressed into service as cobbles here.
One ought to tread with care on this forsaken ground:
The Dead have been restless lately.
Their hearts are filled with Irrigo, and they exude its mournful odour:
It is the colour of forgotten things.
It is the colour of absence.
At the end of the path, the route forks.
One way leads to the pier, the other to the right, to Moloch Street.
The ferryman lingers in his gondola at the end of the pier.
His little pointed teeth gleam from the vicious grin perpetually plastered across his features.
His boat is filled with a variety of motley souls;
Some coughing, some with oozing wounds, some with stony looks of defiance.
They shall soon contribute to the layers of Irrigo.
It is the colour of forgotten things.
It is the colour of absence.
“Last boat of the night! Care for a ride?” wheedles the ferryman.
“Only twenty pence to Hell, my good sir!”
“Once was enough, and that was inadvertent. I certainly won’t go of my own volition.”
“Bah! I never get you folks; always acting like Death is permanent around here!”
“The Soul Re-Attachment Committee is a thicket of red tape. I have no time for bureaucracy.”
I walk to the right down Moloch Street.
“Hmph. Suit yourself.” And with that, he shoved off into the mists.
Moloch Street leads to the centre of the Fallen City, and to the taverns and places of ill-repute.
Perhaps I will finally be able to sell my stories of the Surface World:
Publishers and wealthy folk are inexplicably wont to spend their nights in these seamy places.
Perhaps I can strike a deal with one of the Demons:
They linger here, searching for the disillusioned, the greedy, and the forlorn.
These are my last hopes if I wish to escape the Irrigo that is seeping into my poorly attached soul.
It is the colour of forgotten things.
It is the colour of absence.[li]
edited by Vladislas on 11/1/2013