Crosby

Photos could never do Crosby justice. In this heat the houses and alleys press closer. Wearing a top seems a political statement. England tatoos and Kurdish immigrants, squeezed together on a neglected reef of throbbing poverty. Northwards, memories are shorter. Out in the east, bodies last longer. Blood and muscle endures, tarnishing smiles. The girls have moved in packs for so long they've forgotten the reason. The boys have moved alone for so long they've forgotten the reason. Dark darting dilated pupils, pink ears and olive skin. You can't move in this heat, but you can complain. Brick chalk dust tarmac. Blades, chimneys, washing-lines. Crosby sits silently like a grudge we all bear, the sirens and shouts polite chit-chat around which we organise our resentment. The haze is thick. Heat bounces off the tarmac. We pass through like oil.