Charing cross station under-bridge greasy spoon playing Waterloo Sunset in a brown suit for seventeen quid after he threw his dinner at me, on the new cross train london bridge intact all the girls in flowers and glasses waiting for sixty-four in australian suburbs with the scent of vim and hailstones on the tv pleading for nothing any more a swathe of feisty disappointment cotton wool please undress says the girl I was, take me ‘the underground’, she still looks good, don’t I look good with my elbows in Chartres the rest in Scarborough or worse, folding planes, quick stop at a pennine pub and then back for sex in the back room with the cleaner’s alter-ego and double your score backwards on the carpet with pills and chips for thirty before we go to the museum of trams and costumes, she undressed small breasts and o it was good either way she told me in spite of adoption, thin hair, square jaw, jelly.