poet. writer. imposter.
Sitting by the threadbare curtains, looking over
the illuminated building works, from the fourth
floor, waiting for something interesting
to happen. Birmingham sleeps,
but a drunken Mancunian does not. Calling
for Kieran and Adam and Paul, he walks
in circles, unable to find his way;
lost against a maze of plastic barriers
and ropes blocking his path. I think
of Dante, the statue of Satan in a nearby
gallery, the private hell of Kieran’s friend
and the ultimate indignity, causing
a tsunami of slurred Anglo-Saxon oaths
to bounce around the floodlit site .
He has dropped his polystyrene tray
of chips. He stoops, surveying the loss
then walks away, turning to take a run up and kicks
his chips into a wide carbohydrate arc, shouting
“Roooooneeeeeyy” and acting out his World Cup
Fantasies; escaping his Inferno on Paradise Circus.