Trains backing up into Surrey and the onslaught of the crush at the barriers.
A roadside reek of last night’s piss and the morning’s nicotine and bleach.
A man laughs into his hand.
A woman switches to flats.
The freesheets are a coconut shy.
Two shots please. I like my coffee very strong.
I couldn’t sleep because of our stupid neighbour upstairs playing music and crashing around at four in the morning.
Did you eat there? It’s amazing.
I am booked up pretty much all day, back to back. Sorry.
A notebook on a desk.
The words: ‘Dream of plenty.’
What are we
If the oncoming silences
Sweep in early to
Mute us even now?
And what if the stories we float
Are jetsam for the tide?
What prospect is a journey
When we cannot believe it ourselves?
And where do we get
If all the yards of days
Are dismantled by dusk
To bridge the way back home?
[The sounding of the curlew curfew / (This, always the sign) / Finds the search for meaning ended / Now friends only nod in hasty greetings / Fleet and hassled, as lovers depart / Less longingly, more slingshot / Into the frozen yawning dawn / Of our numbed tomorrows.]
Old: We’ve never had any problems previously.
Young: Oh you’ve had problems?
Old: We’ve not done.
Young: You’ve not done anything?
Old: It’s not happened before.
Young: No, if that’s the case then something needs to be done.
Old: You want to do something?
Young: What could we do?
Old: If we are okay…
Young: You think you are okay?
Old: Are we not?
Young: No, we are not.
Old: Is this new?
Young: I don’t know. Has it happened before?
Old: I hadn’t noticed.
Young: But if you didn’t notice…
Old: I wouldn’t know.
Young: No you wouldn’t know.