tǒrro

Tǒrro! Seizing the bullby the hornssmacks of molestationbestialityme and minepissingin the sawdustthe ringnøstrils rustedtearingfeints and saltsguacamole slantstoreadorfatsa smell of greasepaintwaxedmoustaches postachionutsentertainmentthe runTǒrro!

heatwave

Zip-a-Dee-Fucking-Doo-Dah. The road stirs early. Caught unawares by three uninterrupted mornings of cloudless skies. Our “Song of the South”. Scrabbling over what remains of the ramparts. Hadrian’s Wall.     There is some delay before I hurl back the curtains. Time enough to pad about in twilight still. Two cigarettes spinning a tarry veil. Pinned in tatters

hatchet

The sun is surely shining. If I lean out my window I can see it striking off the brick and glass across the street. A yellow phosphorous nagging. Marginally out of reach beyond that band of shadow dividing the road. The grass verge eaten into by chimney pots.     I sit in the shade and digest

pornography

The lesbians across the street are not pretty. They appear to be happy enough, embracing each other by way of greeting. Exchanging goodbyes. On the veranda just outside their front door; the balcony, if one is given to theatrical bent.     Some time ago the smaller woman’s brother attempted to hurl her over the ledge

a bank holiday

The bank holiday view from the living room window just two floors up converges on a red bicycle. It has been chained to the railing for the past three weeks. Nothing much changes from hour to hour this close to the ground.     Garbage stacked tidily on the pavement drifts out of position only according to