The Dancing Horses

There it is again: that dog barking late at night the only sound you hear – hollow; its cold agony resident at the back door of its possibly deaf or simply ignorant master. With it comes the pauce ring of Sunday night.

A city of broken glass, shattered windows and broken bus stops leaving mounds of the glittering stuff in the path of pedestrians and traffic; great gobs of it now opaque where it rests, like untouchable ice; the result of some sledgehammer team wending their way from the north of the city through to the south and on the way taking out random objects to leave a trail of this. Their last hope at recognition as the wind starts to pick up.

Like i said, the Dancing Horses, bring 'em on:
There is this woman in her late twenties, striving for some sense of normality now – for example, she knows she wants a child – her husband, the epitome of the new urban rock-star (half geek, a dose of rat-arsed punk, and the overdose of a 60s West Coast guitarist), he is having none of it and in public will remind all of this, baulking there to her chagrin. Her trained classical leading edge is drawn to form and the simplicity of a certain pace in things, the correct unfolding, a tempo to life that has purpose, realisation. On the other hand, he is drawn to pubescent narcissism still, the finality of rock and all it’s self-centred excesses; the closer he gets to success, the more he digs in his Cuban heels. Where is their marriage going?

Forgive me the discrepancies, forgive me my ignorance and vanity, but what else am i meant to do with this stuff - gimme an ancient and well-worn T-shirt and let me roll, anyday -

Sheffield