Ghost 2

Colours of broken street; painted with swathes and swashes of grey, rainwet, sodden and perhaps brokendown, ignored by everyone. Somehow though, i always remember it as yellow, a welcoming, sultry, Mediterranean yellow as ancient as time. Constructed by shiftless Scots, the purposeful bunnetted Hen Broons of time, smoking cigarette-butts, haunted by work. Ignored by endless faded-grey shopping-bag old ladies past the moulting autumn trees. Spat upon by all the drunken teens of a hundred years. Ignored by me heading past in some species of anxiety. The old grave walls ignored, the midnight church with its stained glass windows, the crumbling bricks, the sad monkish cell with its ancient pane of glass, and some sort of sad tumbling bookshelf behind. Here's the lofty, rainwet tree at the side of which i once pissed freely coming home drunk in the night, uncaring. All of this a black valley spotted with electric light and mock regency facades that look down with blackened eyes on the heat of drunkenness and carryout and eager, sexual, redhot 21st century spurned in the alleyway fucks and sweats going on in chambers over the road. Where in the modern apartment they have two TVs and all the glossy superfluous paper they could want, a fat computer and an excess of useless information held dull in the weighty brain at bedtime, as the occupier stumbles over the carpeted floor to snooze. Or at some nameless three in the afternoon, a guy clashes the door of his sportscar and is already grappling his mobile phone like a moviestar. Ambles into the Italian restaurant like it was Sunday afternoon...