Club doors closed, coat upturned against
a biting wind, balancing against a wall
to avoid someone else's vomit
Bins from the Chippy, now dark and shuttered
are raided by seagulls, empty packages
strewn around the litter ridden streets
Passing sirens wail yet cannot compete
with the sound of Hard Rock in Flat 12
while down blow an argument festers and waits
In a row of run down houses, a door briefly opens
for an ancient scruffy mongrel grateful for
these few moments to walk through his own shit
Through walls paper thin, the creaking and squeaking
as Buckfast fuelled boyfriend thrusts into his woman
who lies in her silence but longs to say no.
This is good
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