MEAN STREETS

This part of Glasgow is characterised by it's abandoned and shuttered shopfronts
into whose doorways we duck to avoid the gangs of youths. In the square
a lone busker, mentally on another planet, strums on his guitar out of tune;
and on a vandalised bench sits Tommy, who a decade ago
was in our class at school: the boy with learning difficulties, upon whom
the teachers soon gave up. Now, he sells poppies each November on a street corner.

Later, at the local pub's closing time,
there is the usual fracas - a loud explosion of violence
that spews out onto a back street where a young couple are snogging against a wall,
their faces hidden beneath hoodies. We quickly move on, in case they recognise us.
Midnight finds us sitting at a table in the seedy nightclub,
where doll-like women are dancing in cages

and the men are moving from table to table on the make.
One leans forward to stroke my face, his breath reeking of whisky.
I feel my space being invaded. Nevertheless, I can't suppress a mocking giggle -
he is so drunk it's funny. Clearly angered, he grabs me by the hair
and hisses through clenched teeth, "You'll pay for that, BITCH!" - a threat I know you'll avenge.
But for now we swiftly leave. Experience has taught us how to survive

these mean streets where we were born and most likely will never leave.
We re-cross the square, dodging the broken bottles, takeaway wrappers and fresh vomit.
It is deserted now - apart from a junkie out cold on the bench, syringe still in his arm.
A lone pedestrian Police Officer gives us a wide berth,
his eyes betraying sheer inner terror. We part ways.
You go to buy a gun from an acquaintance. I go home to bed.


Don't worry, guys...a purely fictional piece! ;)