They just chew the sperm up and spit it right out. Those women of housing estates have wombs made of toxic waste, pools of fizzy drink and red band cigarette smoke. Their fingers are orange from portioning meat for the supermarket butchers and, in their woolly mouths, their tongues are spiked, slicing barbed remarks through their brother’s mates while rubbing their swelling stomachs. Carpet fibres are scrunched under every nail, long and gleaming, dark lines highlighting like veins.
Their sons and their peers, all survivors, linger on the roadside edge, screaming through girl’s windows. Their Peugeot 307 lowered and sitting on 18 inches of polished alloy and tire radiates in the orange street light. Frightened immigrants call local enforcement who drive by at slow speeds to waggle fingers and tut, but carry on to patrol industrial estates and 24 hour shops. These kids sleep with their hoods up, their rage fallen off the back of a truck.
I asked a friend how to recognise one of the delinquents from harmless kids dreaming of chocolate and summer time.
“When they fart, it sounds like it’s coming from the lower back rather than the butt. Subtle but unquestionable. And they have never heard birdsong.”
Redundancy in attitude and clipped ears betrayed by red-rimmed eyes and bruised shins, there in an unflinching hopelessness lie boys who wouldn’t be spit back out, but screamed into this world with a fondness for imitation Nike.