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The Electric Press Millennium Square, Leeds, 2018

The golden owl turns its neck from the pub and stares illness in the face, while two pigeons puff their heads deep into their chests and four commuters rush across the concrete – not even pausing to think about thinking. When the millennium failed to realise its own ending, and the computers just went ahead and changed, and I was climbing the beer-spattered struts of Jabob’s Ladder to watch the New Year fireworks in a knee-length leopard skin coat and nylon orange flares, then where were you (and was I truly looking marvellous)?

(And where were you when a car crashed into the Bridge of Souls, and I was falling in and out of love, and fairly simultaneously? On which floor of what building were you standing when the second plane ‘hit’, and I half-watched an unlikely visual film plot on the TV of a campsite bungalow bar in rural Wales, while playing pool? But it’s not a film love. It’s life.) Perhaps it’s you I’m watching, on the large screen backdrop to the closure of this afternoon. You’re wearing a grey hooded tracksuit and hiding from the rolling credits of the life you’ve spent the past hour wasting. An empty wine glass on a table from the café down below pretends it’s summer. The clock reads 5.08pm. The wind is westerly, it’s cold out, but the sun is palely shining. And while the ELECTRIC PRESS props up the cumulus, the townhall pillars rest securely upon the neck-extension of a security guard’s muscled spine


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