Friday 23rd January



The residue of something bad without a home, discharged fluids,
on an unloved back seat, constant use. The driver flicks through
stations, chasing an addicted to M.O.R. America, talks to his
cell phone in staccato grunts, hunched over a tiny thing, glowing
in the dark between delicate fingers like truck stop sausages.
Street light rhythms, dim, yellow, feverish, European.
Bull-necked apartment blocks, facades brutalised by Cy Twmbly,
posters ripped to fabulous by Clyfford Still. Riding in the back of
a Berlin taxi, late night in the rain with Dave & Iggy.

Listening to ‘Of Lovers, Gamblers and Parachute Skirts


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