A bit of backdating.

At Northside

There is only one red sofa and it has the best view
of the green three-breasted women I can find. And every time
I've been here a man with a balding head chooses 'luck' over 'love'
and would have 'sex' if they only had the option on the wall.

There is a buzzing in the absence of scream, and an awful lot
of baby talk, one way or another. Everyone's an expert
but it's the language of needles that steals the show:
the backpieces, half-sleeves and cover-ups—the freehand fee.

A pregnant woman hums a tune either side of the mechanical whine
when the sudden social conscience of the local yobs breaks through
the burst-open door. Don't do it! There is a ripple of laughter from those in the know
and it is too late for you, who emerges beaming and bleeding and ready for home.