ix. messenger the writing sprayed upon the wall is simply enigmatic whichever way i look at it an X splayed lethargically in black across the red brick tile effect which is this tram line underpass a fraud of feeling trapped behind my retina which lasts as a snapshot stolen from a vandal’s purse and all day long i’m speaking someone else’s words my signature confuses me with me a friend who calls my name misinterprets me identically i walk to work to unfamiliar hip hop beats arrive and meet my own relief at the cross my colleague sucks between her teeth there is no question of belief for she is every bit as atheist as me if i crossed the road i’d confuse it for a kiss x. atheists we’re maybe all more or less the same variety packaged within a stereotype labelled up and never posted anywhere else but here wherever that might be for me that’s here just now waiting for the letterbox to flap it’s 4pm on a sunday afternoon and i’m sprawled upon the sofa watching football texting all my friends the goals they’re watching too at home their home i wonder if they’ve had their sunday dinner text them ask them no they haven’t funny that i haven’t either and i’m hungry hungover hung upon the sofa like the telephone is slung upon its cradle badly beyond engaged the flapping of the letterbox diverts me smelling pepperoni mushrooms mozzarella

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