The Jamaican Coke Rush

We were glad to be ignored by the urchins they had crawled from their respective corners, gangster lean with the usual quota of two street girls - fatty and thinny - to be honest they were all shadows and silhouettes to me at all costs. On the corner - lit from the weak flare of tangerine streetlights, or pulling quietly on a cigarette or spliff. The beauty of outsiders. Walking towards the main roads, liquidly rolling into view, a beefcake with his top off - it was hot enough. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I ask myself - is life worth living should I blast myself? We start laughing because the thought was simultaneous - but as he walked towards me he wasn't Matt anymore, not for the moment he was another outsider walking at me making the oldest of conflicts flutter into dark life in his chest. I, perturbed and out of sorts, Matt happy. Naturally infectious though in the night, and so I coped with my ego. I put it underfoot - the dragon under Saint George's heel - same as that old print we had at the top of the stairs - opposite the windowsill that gave me the fantods when I was a nipper because it was DEAD SPACE. The thought of it frooked me out as much as the prospect of eternal life - I dislike phantoms. And so lying awake in a kind of fearful ecstacy - now awake with a less than celestial cluster of thoughts in my head and dick in hand; sticky sheets; wet feet. Angry again, there's no escape from being churlish or stuck behind the gates at that time in the morning. A stupid, ugly cunt in the shop, face like a twine of rope, numb boyfriend - a unit - the thing Shiona taught me to slip out of before it was too late and everything became predictable. I really want her to go away.