Tuesday 21 October 2014

FUCKTOWN HIGHSTREET DUSK




its warm

no chill yet

the
summer
and
the
days late sun
cling
on

bbq takeaway smells
mix
with
the low fine estuary mist
and
the
heat haze from exhaust of parking hatchbacks
is
warm
on my shins

the empty indian resturant
is
scraped bare inside
pillaged 
behind
blacked-out
windows
and
i wonder if memories cling to the naked pillars
of
drunk dance steps
and
cheap
corporate do's

an empty plot
with
a
half rebuilt house
now
abandoned 
layers
new decay 
on 
the 
old

a man with smudged green tattoos
under
thick white arm hair
calls out 
HEY ! 
to a younger man in shorts at the cash-point
while 
still
50 yards away

his face is like a clenched first
he says 
EIGHT QUID
and
indicates
his
white
shoes

the cash-point man
looks like he'd
rather
not
have
been 
seen

i
look
at the shoes
supermarket loafers with afterthought tassels

eight quid 
is 
about 
right



 from metrouk



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