memories of london
on the mangled street corner, i get dragged into an agreement with a fatso, and not knowing what’s happened, i’ve signed up to wave a banner for a football league. later i sit in the back of a cab dreaming about wet upper thighs and the driver is jamaican. “are you sleeping?”, he asks. “no just thinking about a girl.” he gives a conspiratorial wink and steps on the gas. he and i don’t have to talk anymore because we both know that the blood of the world is on my hands; his blood. i tip him handsomely, which doesn’t quite make up for it. it’s not my money anyway: i have merely given him 10 pounds of per diem.
