Beneath the ceiling, below the floor.

Beneath the lip of the street, below the cracked edge of the kerb, our shadows are scorch marks in the nuclear white of the walls. Down here in the half light we have assumed new forms. Footsteps, like bass notes, descend the stairs, taking them two at a time. Cables and wires colonise every surface exposing their crude circuitry: the city skinned alive, prised apart. From now on, this is where we meet: the bunker. Above us darkness falls or the sun rises, the city sweats, the city sleeps. Down here the neon pink spotlight jitters, jerks, flickers beneath the ceiling, below the floor. We spoke our names, dropped them from our mouths, left them at the door, left ourselves behind. Down here we keep our distance, dance in our own space, in our own secret ways. Footsteps, like bass notes, descend the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Drinks
Soup Kitchen
Spear Street
Manchester
9th September 2015

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