Potholes and tramstops, I’m waiting for God, empty shops, barley and hops are brewing, hip hop is in the blood, Asian ladies in flip flops with a yummy smile like a ham and cheese toastie, a Victorian writer drinks a pint in the Charles Dickens tavern, everyone looks for a safe haven. Weaned from the breast, the full moon, empty nest, Indian chief at the bar, his children are the stars in the sky, the homeless are hustling fir a little loose change on the dusty road outside, the cops are using their muscles on the vulnerable. cigars at the birth of my bastard fiction because no one recognises a poet with his notebook.