Based on a conversation between friends involving lots of tasty wine

on Friday the 18th of September at 12.38am and some other stuff

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Two crocs and one cock

The fox is chewing the bike lock

Peachy sours and ultimate ghosting

This is now what the lads are doing

Giant broom and sad smiley faces

Glittery stickers on our glasses

Smashing cinsault by the Med

This is what the ginger boy said

It isn’t love until it passed

Where did I read that?

Fuck knows

What about the dangerous boys ?

He said What about the dangerous boys ? their tracksuit tuck in their white socks, probably the one wearing a crocodile or a little croissant shape on their chest. Some natty from Robinot on the table, he couldn’t look straight at me, but anyway I was reading his words on his lips not in his eyes, because they were hidden behind some reddish tinted glasses. I kept saying to myself that these glasses were way too tiny for his face, but he was trying to act cool, so I might as well. He could have been 29 or 42, that was hard to decide. He said again And what about the dangerous boys ? I told him they’re in the movies, not in the streets anymore. He said Are you sure ? You sure ? He was worried I was lying to him, for an unknown reason. Yet I had no interest in lying to him about the dangerous boys, their tracksuit tuck in their white socks. No interest in lying at all actually. I raised my glass of chilled grenache to cheers! with them, the Sunday drinkers high on their stools or something else.

The reed

I look tiny and frail so they think

if they push me firmly enough

I would fall

and lie down on the concrete

my bloody knees,

the scratches on my elbows

Until I die

Until I die

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They think that they can

walk on my dead body

while saying sorry

But I’m not there

I’m not on the floor

I am near the pond

my feet in the damp soil

_

I’m not an oak

I am a reed

No matter how fast the wind is blowing

how hard they’re breathing

and keep hammering away

they can’t break me

they can’t shatter me

because I will bend

_

I am a reed

I am a reed

Don’t you worry

mommy

Emotions are like strangers in your house

They knock at the door or press the doorbell, once, twice, three times, and you hesitate to answer because you’re not expecting anyone. Eventually when you open the door, they face you in their very own emotional way. All red and bloated with anger, absolutely soaked in tears, laughing hysterically or they don’t even look straight in your eyes while twisting their fingers with guilt. Nevertheless, the type of emotion has little importance, as they all block the door with their foot – how rude is that – and enter the room without being invited to. The angry one screams to your face and puts the table on fire. The happy one jumps on your shoulders and tickles you until you want to go for a wee. The sad one is bringing a half empty bottle of white wine – gross – then curls up on your bed and crumples the sheets with the shoes that he doesn’t remove. The guilty one is following you everywhere like your shadow with his little sneaky face and whispers to your left ear what have you done? and to your right one I told you so. Those tossers are ruining your beautiful and neutral house. You don’t know them, they turned out uninvited and you don’t feel comfortable around them, even a bit cringe. He hasn’t texted you today and the loony ecstatic one meets the lonely drunk rag doll in your bedroom to catch your phone to send him five messages on Whatsapp followed by a sixth embarrassing one that you’ll have to explain later. The table is on fire, and so is the wooden floor, as hot as lava, so you have to bounce from furniture to furniture to avoid burning in hell. The guilty one shows you the screen of your phone and points with the nail of his index finger the two blue ticks. For three fucking days he’s pointing the two blue ticks and whispers to both your ear that that was a mistake and that you screwed up. The loony one tries to apologise to the guilty bastard who’s not listening anyway, but something else caught her attention and she’s currently typing Hey There Delilah but it’s played in an empty Toys R Us at 2:37pm with moderate traffic outside on Youtube to soothe the rag doll’s soul. This is a nut house. You might have to call the police if they carry on, but the angry pyro threw your phone away by the opened window. He got fed up with the guilty bastard rehashing the two blue ticks story like a broken record. On top of that stupid act – you need your phone – he writes on the wall in big red letters that NOTHING MATTERS. Where did he find this acrylic paint? Did he come with it?

Closed like a clam,

the water is as cold as ice cube

a migraine is tiptoeing behind my left eye

and the little dark spots are dancing like

throbbing light

We should be talking too, but

my feelings have been shut down

same as that place that some call work

everything is closed closed closed

closed like a clam

You do deserve more than a weatherspoon (a declaration of friendship)

_

Fake lashes and centre parting

Gold skin, your tan is daunting

Your dress is tight and my lips are pursed

When I see you walking in front of my face

It’s like I turn the tv on and watch Love Island

_

Just below the line of his Calvin Klein

or crossing his chest, hairless but shiny

Not to my taste, eyes closed strongly

listening to the sound of his mother tongue

only

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And us, matching helmets,

matching distress,

Eating Mr Whippy and arancinis

hiding in the shade on the beach

entering the shed to avoid the bitch

easy peasy as saucy besties

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If the rabbit is a typo

and the men are either growers or showers

You’ll rise or die under the water

If only I’m allowed into your bubble again

that could be us quietly watching the rain

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But never oh, never

let him push the doors of a Weatherspoon

because you deserve more,

really, you do deserve more

than something cheap and soggy

Blondies in Hackney

Why on Earth all those boys in London decided to bleach their hair during lockdown? I’ve never seen that many blondies walking around Clapton, London Fields and Hackney in general. And I’m not talking about those rhubarb delights that my friend baked for me – might share the recipe later with someone who truly deserves it btw. Between light tangerine and mustard yellow they – the boys – obviously bought this cheap home total bleach kit, oblivious to the fact they wouldn’t get this beautiful platinum blond colour from the packaging. The girls know, and they do it anyway. I mean I’ve done it many times before, transforming my own hair into a poor quality wig, but I knew what I was doing. Facing their lockdown loneliness they went through the process of changing their hair colour, in order to spice up their existence, what they thought would bring immediate joy into their life. Because they couldn’t – for once – control the world they faced the same powerlessness that we face as girls because we didn’t write the world’s rules, and acted on something they could change, their hair colour. Hair colours are political, it’s something you can work on, decide, change, choose and control. When you feel powerless, you take your scissors, or put your gloves on and cover your head with the white corrosive paste which is burning your eyes and your nose all at once. And now, the boys parade in the streets showing off their vulnerability. Because yes, you also have to accept to be vulnerable to cut or dye your own hair, you must take the risk of failure, to face the possibility of ruining both your hair and your pride. You have to let go on your ego, and down yourself to a peg or two. Locked for three months, the boys have no other choice than facing their hairiness. What to do with that? Getting rid of the fringe, badly trimming the sides, shaving everything or turning blonde. The last category is my favourite one, and I stare at them as long as possible to read in their mind the decisive moment when they decided to do it, and if they actually regret it. Clearly they regret it, but they will never tell.

Morning podcast

At the pub, plastic cups and ashtray 

it was only a Tuesday

Not a pub as we remember pubs, ah?

more like a park where a stranger brings you beers

In my head I was already like nah

yet I was all ears 

No mask, no mask

not a really tough task

But at night, from North to South 

the drops of water are coming to my mouth

I would drink them,

I was drinking the rain

Literally

I was so thirsty 

Pissing down, soaked, such a bummer

forty-five minutes cycling

Porridge and crunchy peanut butter

in the morning, crossing

Tower Bridge with not a single tourist

It does worth the risk