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everything must go
by zenone
Packed out street today. Big
mothers and small kids with
ice lollie-stains
clutter the pavement and I
can’t keep my stride. Around
the swaying old
fella picking his nose (If
you’re waiting for a bus
mate- find a bus stop).
Three clear strides now,
almost…. Lurch. Big bloke
barrelling out of Dixons.
PHILIPS MIDI SYSTEM clutched
under arm. Bloke has his eye
fixed firmly on
the space next to the telly
in his flock papered council
house and nothing
else (what am I, Invisible?)
Spend your cash on something
useful mate, like
the jacked up Cortina
rotting in your driveway. I
veer away kerbwards, and
cross the street, meeting
halfway a pack of lunchtime
beers in suits. I
break through them like
surf, catching the lagered
spray of their breath as
they bellow and laugh over
my head, then wash away
behind me into the
traffic noise. I check the
bird in the mobile phone
shop. No leg today. She’
s sitting behind the counter
pulling cuticles or
something. Estate Agents,
Estate Agents, Bookies. And
then I’m crossing the end of
the pedestrianised
section by the phone boxes
and I can breathe a bit, find
some peace. I see
Samantha from school trying
to stand her kid up. Its
lying on its face
screaming and the fat cow is
trying to pick it up by its
tracksuit hood.
Then they’re gone and my own
face is flashing in the
window of Our Price.
Summer Madness Sale.
Everything must go.
© 1999 zenone
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