Reading The Great When: a Long London Novel by Alan Moore. Just started it, but I liked this snippet:
Brass: a river now of shouts and punches, Cable Street smells like a circus in stampede. Bristle of fist, flag, bottle, poker, shovel, people like pushed paint across the flagstones and why, David Gascoyne thinks, is there not poetry that will contain the passion and intensity of this, its snarl, its cauliflower-eared jazz? Suspended in a sea of shoulders, forced against gabardine backs in angry intimacy, he relinquishes volition to the furious animal in which he has become a component.