The wind is picking up.
The girl holds down the fluttering pages of a newspaper with one hand as the breeze whispers to the print about promises of the sky. A plump crow stands in one spot on the grass looking about whilst the seagulls wail overhead. Beyond it another does the same from the vantage of the wall. Loitering as if waiting for a signal from afar, awaiting the orders of the sky.
They take flight across the harbour, between its mouth and anus, around the dead promanade.
The empty public swimming pool shut since spring past after a child fell through the roof and broke his neck.
When the boy ocassionally escaped the decaying orbit of the drowning town, flinging himself on gasoline fumes and motorway eddies as far as the nearest city, he would find himself wandering blindly past shops and benches, the wind lashing at his eyes.
Bewildering echoes of people;
laden with menancing expressions and plastic bags.
Weaving between the plodding feet as if on invisble thread his feet would find the noodle bar. Snapping the chopsticks along the seam he would rub the sticks against one another, polishing splintered edges. In the desolate mall, where the rain seeped through broken skylight, he hid himself from the damp, sitting in a vacant doorway and slurping chilli noodles lavished in hot and sweet and extra spicy till his eyes watered and his tongue throbbed.
Endorphines burst like fireworks
in chemical satuated grey matter. He breathed in.
The cold air flowed over flaming lips, filling his mouth, causing them to sting harder, brighter.
Ate in frenzy, soft capsicum bliss that slid down his throat like haileys comet.
Box empty he bounced to his feet and fled, racing through the doors of the corporate coffee house to guzzle icewater from a platic jug, over his chin, dripping onto a faded black tshirt
which pledged alligence to some obscure metal band in cracked print.
Still his nerves sang in painful clusters of diminished chords that spread over his face in a knowing masochit smile.
Beneath the awning he smoked an overstuffed rollup and watched the passersby in the nicotine haze.
Old grey women
in the coffeeshop window
Bathed in the filtered glow of the outside
exchange empty mutterings through loose fitting dentures.
Beneath their feet the faded tartan carpet carries the spectre of a million burdens.
The Charity letterbox brigade arrive mobhanded.
Standing around their parked cars in the court talking loudly in the moments before they descend enmass upon unsuspecting doors.
The girl watches them from her priphery on the way to and from the shop.
Upstairs she stares as one of them spits a mouthful of tea just outside her gate.
The boy always imagined his teeth as the half demolished remains of the highstreet projected backwards from the future,
etched in enamel and decay.
Receeding gums, root canal,
exposed nerve endings like steel concrete skeletons twisted skywise.
Half numb between grotesqueries of humanity.
The wind is picking up.
Woman drops a coin in her purse. No cherries. Crumpled scratchcard drops to the floor of the bus. When she puts her purse back into her rucksac her hand returns holding a bag of crisps. Gotta feed the monkey.
Her androynous face looks like it has spent an age and a day atop a cliff staring out to sea; Pocked and stormbeaten; steeped in salt water and put away wet.Her eyes fall not upon the horizon, which causes them to ache, but upon the waves, tracking the undifferentiated swell, waiting for something to break free from the mass ad take form ; race shorewards to oblivion. She wanted so much to break free and turn herself towards the sky.