Shards of neon form icicles on her back the cello curve of lovers in tango a new moon painting the distance blue.

Text: Paul Summers

Three rums later & he’s stood at the bandit talking to the reels as if they’re old mates, calling in favours, promising the earth, swearing down on his daughter’s life, his stained fingers rubbing at his eyes.

I close my eyes & all there is are blueprints and dancing girls

Red flock wallpaper Infused with the sweat of a thousand losers. I want to lick it to feel their pain.

I’m humming Pretty Vacant at the urinals wondering if birds can cry. Have you ever seen a bird cry? It’s ten & a half days since she left.

The old man with no fingers remembers the shriek of the circular saw.

His carpet is a collage of spilled secrets. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, robbing almost anyone to pay some barman the price of a dose. Responsive as glass: transparent most days, broken on occasion.

With retrospect I look nothing like Elvis Presley & Tracy Baker was a fool to entertain my illusions.