I saw Madame Maserati again today (not unusually) and a burning litter bin by the Quay spoke to me through the stench of roasting dog shit and take-away Chinese.
Find myself sitting opposite a dangerous-looking man, all big bones and wiry sinew.
The game is up The music stopped Surprised and stunned I’m sure There’s no last chance No more romance Your plaything is no more I’d love to say It’s not this way
I look into the vortex and it's you. Surrounded by the madness of shattered homes and lives. Drawing me deep and down into the night. The end of everything but you.
Madame Maserati takes her usual seat by the river, at the foot of the red corporate canyon. She lights her usual cigarette, sends her usual text to her usual lover, draws a number of times