In  the pink hour, drunk instruments take their monthly lyrical pill dancing girlfriends. Even the takeaway is empty of women, this time. 2006, summer months, chucked in bracelets as key notes of fifty marriages, barking, wide eyed, technical chemical help. The evening has an accent of semi-consciousness. I want to belt down all comfort, I picked up the street telephone, and whispered it's emergency number to how I love.  Street persuasion waited outside the booth, I told it not to hear me, cos he goes talking his clothes, and I end up on some junction, jaywalking, a stereo hanging out of my pants. I have some drugs, packed up and kept in a bookshelf called old months, crude grey pills rotting inside the book like crude milk, crushed and dampened by the air. I am all alone. 

I'm open line for girls. came on a wonderful, I cant hold out song, I went with a lass thrown at the motorway adverts, the billboards, shook like, they could bring out thunder. I'm in women's nowhere land. Common chaos did another old one.  The last hounding of that other girl, the first one, always the first. So like not the wind, this windy way, the poison on me, pathetic and scanned by a policeman with a red laser gun pointing in my eyes. I got frumped, held by the skin of my shoulder, and directed away from traffic. I ended dribbling, and knocking up the glass window of the Japanese girl.