Vodka begins to release the warm buzz in the centre of something, with darkness coming for us, and I am hunting you down night, I am everything you wanted me to be, I am wearing exactly what you asked me to, Iíve got that anticipatory grin on my expectant face. Look at me now night! Tulse Hill and West Norwood rush past outside the private hire, and nearer the noise thereís the red writing on bulby white backgrounds, which are still, in the style of barber shop frontages, and grilled onions from a place I canít see (and never can). Mumble mumble. Blah how much driver... cheers, have a good one. Bye bye. Scattered u-wanna-be-mees all on the near-tube pavements, covered in tans Ė real and fake, mainly fake. Gone-down sun still feels close in these lotioned streets. I am within them now, night. I am with you and the midges. I am within you, night. I am coming for you. Bleach-white flashes of perfect teeth at intervals through the cottony air, also the Persil-pristine polo shirts soften my insides more and Iím floating inside this high street, so tall my hair grazes the railway bridge Ė and the clouds (or is it just smog?). Tummy somersault. There is dancing ahead, just a Brixton-to-East stretch away. Just a grin-faced, tummy-tickle, under/overground lust-fest away. I jump out the cab at Atlantic Road, spying the clandestine inns, down the forgotten alleys, and the see-through orange plastics coming from pre-renovated knocked-through nowhere lands. And there is Argos of course. Here is me, night. Going along strong. Heading down the steps, night. Strolling down the escalator, night. Into the swelter, night. The train departs, night. Iím yours, night.
© Copyright 2016 John Maher