Leeds 1997

life.

 

 

Howard Marks posters

advertising free space-cakes

for his latest book launch

were bandied about the city.

 

 

haughty shoppers colonised

the arcades, alleys, streets, and stores,

bouncing hurriedly into different

types of book

entirely.

 

 

trolley-dollies

pushed past us

with chairs and screaming kids

strapped inside,

begging for Mamma’s t***y,

 

 

but getting only plastic.

 

 

the fuzz mulched around

on their beats

in twos

hardly bothered by Mr Marks,

 

 

Mr Nice.

 

 

we scored some skunk

from a dreadlocked Rasta

standing in a stone doorway

near the Arches

selling pipes, and skins,

and bongs,

 

 

just in from Amsterdam,

he said

blethering in a Jamaican

Creole drawl,

and standing with a carnal

grin

 

 

i could hardly understand

him.

 

 

good s**t mon!

i got that,

handed him the dosh,

three Charles Darwin’s,

and stepped away to find

a bus

 

 

back to Wakey,

quickly.

 

 

i was planning another sesh

in my mind

for later

with my mate . . .

 

 

we'll meet up with the brown-eyed

beatniks,

the blue-eyed punks

and the freakish freaks

 

 

and the f*g

i rented the flat with,

 

 

we’ll listen to Shadow’s mix,

talk some s**t,

blu-tac Egyptian hieroglyphs

to the wall,

plot a revolutionary anarcho-

coup,

 

 

laugh at the impracticalities

of it all -

 

 

and afterwards

i’ll ride the EasyJet

between her flabby thighs

a bit pasted,

and pissed

 

 

when she comes around,

after

 

 

she finishes school.    

 

Reviews

[Jaci]

Exceptional writing!