The Wolves

Now I hear each individual sound rather than a cloud of noise. I hear the space between each sound too.

Dudley Street, Cleveland Street, Darlington Street, Queen Square. All like abandoned fairgrounds. Pigeons and mamba. It won’t be too long before we see the weeds growing through the pavement. Walking down a passageway from the Mander Centre towards Framers I witness a man suspended at approximately 20 degrees to the vertical, frozen in a catatonic state, a shopkeeper stands in his doorway cautiously assessing the situation, a few words leave the mouth of the zombie, who then abruptly turns like a string puppet and freezes again. Further down another sits against a wall oblivious to Earth. He has the complexion of the Moon. A soiled ruffian struts towards me, “…for fucks sake” he mutters then stops, presses his crotch against a black metal bin mounted in the centre of the walkway, and unzips.

If you listen carefully you can hear Walsall from here it is so quiet nowadays. Or perhaps it is Skore’s spray can or just another wolf leaving the pack. They’re at home to Chelsea on Saturday but you wouldn’t know it.