the Northern Pub on Tib Street
takes the odd/odd guests:
usually Saturday/Sunday morning shags
or Angeline; when she's fucked-one-over on Sol
the world crumbles around her ears.
the attic room, has a balcony
looks out onto Oldham street, below
Ang flicks Sobranie ash on top of the revellers, raggamuffins;
scallies and disorderly conductors.
wads a stick of gum
smooths her leathers,
unscrews Jack,
welcomes him to her mouth,
wishes the stains on the bedspread
were a world away from her bruised heart.









i will miss her- look forward to her return.. 











45 old applause
