I’m sitting in a coffee shop chain about
a quarter past one, tucking into a cheeky slice of
Red Velvet and weighing up the choices –
Super Berry Smoothie or Caramel Latte? And I’m wearing
my favourite lipstick, Fetish, a kind of moody mauve
which was expensive, but I though – why not treat yourself?
There’s a kid next to me: snazzy dresser, pristine boat shoes, hair
sculpted with geometric precision, and he’s rustling through the horoscopes.
“‘Venus is in the tenth house. You will be favoured with an unexpected
windfall.’ Windfall? What’s a windfall?” he says.
So later on I’m walking down to that part of town where empty
Walkers packets skim the streets like tumbleweed,
where fag ends and gum pocks lie round like week-old confetti.
You know that bit? A grubby looking skylark is belting a melody
fit to bust over the car and train roar,
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