The poet smiles,
a hot wet smile
at every girl that waves past;
he doesn’t care.

Anything with thighs and breasts is a bullseye target;
repulsive creature.

The artist dehumanises
all things;
stares blankly at her wine
pictures blood fountaining from its rim.

Glass gears spilling out
over the lip.

The musician taps out
his self-indulgent beat;
restlessness on the table.

Smiles when complaining
about the radio
and tightens his teeth.

The writer is
drunk, in the corner;
gifting character like a fickle god
to the most inanimate of objects.

Chairs are chancellors, tables
night-watchmen and Guinness is the God-King.

The pencil portraitist draws
imaginary lines
with his fingernails on a beer mat;
creating a masterpiece,
a caricature of society.

He tears it up.

The designer considers function;
an intuitive layout,
perhaps,
to drive conversions and express brand identity.

He leaves his clients
dreaming of Italian soffiti.

The philosopher tells herself
none of it matters;
that history has ended,
that capitalism has won.

It doesn’t matter;
what comes next?

They tell themselves that they live
in the future,
and that there is no future
beyond them and the haze.

The hazy Salford sunlight distends,
dark as it pushes
through copper-lined clouds.

Dry daydreams
that bleed
into the wet night.