literarypocketblog


Petrol Voices

Through the rain-slashed glass the river’s level with the tracks. Pon-tee, this is you is it? Ditches of empty Lucozade bottles. Pearly petrol puddles. Delivery van glides overhead, a white box in the sunlight. Come on, sweetheart, you are lovely. You are my darling, why are you crying? Ambles overhead, a white box in the sunlighter. You are not my darling is it?

Scrum at the mesh. Alright, we’re at the rain-slashed tobacco mulch. Bloke taps his bottle of pop. Kid flicks his lighter. Ambles over to the LED screen, hands in pockets, spits. The river’s level with a tattooed cheek in the rain. Exhaust fumes overhead, a white stripe. Finishes bottle of pop and lets it drop to the floor between his legs. Says in hoods, Breath and child hold hands in jail again.

Exhaust fumes over puddles. Rain already seeping around my seams. Your house phone is ringing. Can I call? Scrum at the crossing. Shove across while the traffic’s clogged and the man still red. Smell of umbrellas. Gutterings percussing. My other phone is ringing. Can I call you back? Ambles over to the yellow aisle. Whines and fumes under the LED screen, hands in hoods. Black boats shuffle above the tracks.

Green and white stripe market tents. Polystyrene cup brown stained lid left on a black meter box. You’re not answering your house phone, you’re not answering your mobile. Ring me back please. When you get a minute. Thank you bye. Smoking at a picnic table on a pavement in the rain. Pot plant in a steamed window. Cars clash down around my seams. Pon-tee, this is you are my darling, why are not answerings percussing?

Black boats shuttle above the sunlight. Ignition whines and putters off across the pond. Alright, we’re at the taxi rank now. Supermarket bouncer with a tattooed cheek in the doorway. Pigeonshapes shuttle shoppers. Home Delivery Service Available. Cars clash down around the one-way flume. Smoking a van glides over to the yellow aisle. Breath and white box in the doorway. Eating in a dark voice, Cookie’s in hoods.

Well that’s what I’d like to know, fucking hell, whatever. Eating in an empty sandwich bar. Loading a van with cardboard banana crates. I know full well she did and don’t you tell me she didn’t. Steam billows from an alley vent. Pigeonshapes shuffle above the sunlight. Well that’s what I’d like to know full well. Bargain Booze empty dark. Boxes stacked on floor. Green and fumes under the doorway. Says in a dark voice, Cookie’s in jail again.

Receipts pasted to paving slabs. Fag butts squashed tobacco mulch. Well that’s whatever. Breath and fumes under the dripping girders. Pigeonshapes shuffle above the mesh. Smoking hell, whatever. Boxes stacked on floor between his bottles. Scratched red metal automatics flap ajar. Woman and child hold hands in hoods in the yellow aisle. Pon-tee, this is you bye.

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