Stutter

In from the out. From the out there. From a Saturday night’s purr of the terrace. Purring as legs like upward milk shooting up from red stilettos into queues of teenage arses cupped in black. Purring as dry-ice billows from Club. Purring as the fights mount in beats, of taxi-driver hand grasps the wheel, of ab-cutting t-shirts flecked with Piss. Purring as tonight’s lies: go out and hear again the sax-player lie to the crowd, another drum machine. The woman near him lie through her laugh, to a man lie back through her shout. Chorale. The pub heaves it; makes molten The Great Nothing That Goes On. Leaving truth again to Our Failures: hear the sax-player splutter twice, sure and doubtlessly; see the liars’ eyes without recognition, hold bewilderment bright as a stone; and watch the girls, walking home, drop their phone, pick it up stutter