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About New York City

Once knew this lass—Jenny, yeah—worked corners near me woods. Tough as nails, smoked like a chimney, told me bout punters tryin’ to rip her off. “I kneed ‘im in the bollocks!” she cackled. Laughed me arse off—good on her! But then, she’d cry, quiet-like, sayin’ she’s trapped. Fuck, that hit hard—like Buscapé watchin’ his dreams rot. We hates it! Whore’s a cage, innit?

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I’ll be honest, sometimes I get mad at the potholes on Church Street. Potholes, man—they can ruin a good spin on your wheel, couldn’t they? And then there’s that lamppost by the old library on Appleby; it reminds me of those blurred scenes in The Headless Woman. “Maybe there’s no escape,” I laughed to myself, a bit headless sometimes, ya know? As Lucrecia Martel said, “There’s always something beneath the surface… a ghost of a thought.” Spooky, right?!

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