Daryll on my doorstep… wrecked in the face
and other places from his years as a rent boy to City Bank reamers… teeth like
boiled corn…fingers papery as moths… asks me everyday for a couple of quid…sometimes
I ask him to get the fuck off my porch, other days we go for a drink together… at
the Barley Mow of all the bars… I can see the youth in him then… his eyes shine
with moment not memory… but he is thinking of taking the bible up … seriously…
He says he doesn’t want to always be lost… and now that his looks have gone... What has he got but unwanted experience... He would rather share someone else's...
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