Bricking it (up)

Gentle problem

Elusive stony nature

Winds and whips through the red underskin

Contracting in a thoughtful pulse that lives here between the temples

A creeping rage illuminates the deep black, things happen.

The people don’t see but the walls move, the bricks align with grainy fluidity, a rug lifted and shook, rows wave like fabric

Snaking cement lines drip down the walls, they’ve come loose in the upheaval.

 

 

Street story (3)

Walking back from the cinema,

It was really cold.

I have a fast cold walk,

The air gets in my bones so I walk almost leaning forward,

The rain coming in at an angle.

My mates were sharing an umbrella, I had my own – a small one.

It was dark and I was about 50 metres ahead, trying to get my blood pumping.

Two men in their forties or fifties, grey coats, one with a cap and stubble:

“You’re a sexy little minx aren’t ya?”

I pretended I hadn’t heard, kept walking.

“Fucking streetwalker” under his breath.

I led in bed stewing all night.