A siren wails in the dark, summoning those who are susceptible to her charms.
He says, do you remember the day we met?
She's a soda-fountain girl with plump strawberry lips and cherry cheeks and the kind of smile that makes your stomach go fizz.
Maybe I go to work every morning at six.
The skin on the man’s face looked like a diseased ham, shiny pink with patches of white flaking from his nose, forehead, chin, even eyelids. He was even sweating like a pig.
Through the dark streets they carouse and slide and caper and slither and creep, metamorphising in each streetlight, snatches of snickering song bouncing off the pavements and bitumen and concrete and glass.
I’m pretty sure I know what I want to be when I grow up.
I wish the baby would quiet down, just for a minute. He fusses and he squirms and he just won’t still, just won’t relax, just won’t settle.
The fireman, his eyes
He was a cool customer, with his strut, his dark oblong glasses, his shaggy fringe, his pilled charcoal beret.
The park was windy and desolate, as the dark grass struggled through deciduous muck and the trees rattled skeletally, their colourful autumn ballgowns discarded for a naked death.
The phone rings.
In the dusty bazaar, the heat settles in a heavy golden haze around the hard packed earth, the wooden tables, the dirty and torn canvas stands.
Lie in bed. Discontented. Alone. Not sleeping. White sheets, crisp and clean.
I’m a rich man, a tycoon, a player, one of the top ten most eligible bachelors of all time.
To find your way into her blue heart, frozen solid,
I’m the guardian of this place.
Through a golden haze, as terrible as the sun and as potent as a sealed garage full of petrol fumes, that’s how I see my future.
He turns his face up toward the sun, and lets the warmth cascade down him like water, getting deep into the wrinkles that cut up his skin.
Wearing a mask and reeking of gin, the old sailor rolls crocodile tears down his face over the real tattooed ones.