Drains beneath the pavement carry the sound of feet drumming on skin. The city’s heart is burning. I am a fly caught in a window display. Watching the slave market – dressed up alongside handbags branded. Trapped behind glass I smell coins and notes. Consumers rustle like wasps. My frown hurts in a crown, extending round my head. I feel crystals of patience turning to gas and condensing on the shop windows. Carrier bags stir on the surface of a mirage – their mouths have been bricked up. I listen to the melody of unborn children in mothers bulging with smiles. Waters break under the eaves of arcades. Another generation born to cigarette ash and burger grease. Newborns with radios in their ears – speaking with two voices. Microwaves for milk. There is not much air between the window and the back of the display. My blood is the texture of old banknotes.
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