One Hundred and Twenty.


Izzy circle


this is free stella and slick beats and the racks are emptying and feet are finding the floor like it’s a new lover everyone looks either like an urban woodsman or an ironic chav or a 90s American teen party movie, faces somewhere on a scale between ‘aww yeah, sick beatz’ and ‘slightly uncomfortable but hoping that someone is watching’, everyone is here to observe each other – this is ticking all the boxes of where to be at 7:44pm on a thursday night – Urban Outfitters has never looked this shiny and new.


Sarah circle


Sweep me up spellbound
Lost in the tall branches
Of these skyscrapers
Winding their way to the way up planes
My feet beating a tattoo to the cliffs
That soar above the street-side gutters
Catching the pennies and puddles of the worn down day
Mince pie dreams dapple the bluestone
Falling from the faces of white-collar workers
Taking sips of the second-last coffee of the shift
With their miracle smiles cocked at half mast
Back-seat tram drivers settle their heads on the windowpanes
Drumming their long frayed fingers on their Tupperware tubs
The sun trundles along its running track
Been training since forever and it never gets faster
Feeling all plain-Jane tubby in the ocean-flat mirrors
Glaring down at the marathon runners breaking the tape
The birds warble their half-remembered operas
As time scours their no-mess memories clean
Still, there’s the hint of an aria in the burbling
The exhaust pipe braziers puff out their fierce incense
Which twists like a cat around the feet of the commuters
Snoops into their briefcases
Presses under their wedding rings
And, losing interest, heads out into the clouds
To have a quick chat to the rain



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