Back to back bedsit...

Back to back bedsit above the bakers; she liked her cake and eat it, open legs, open relationship. She smoked too many cigarettes, told too many lies, dreamed too big for her income; thought the world was made of gold. The rain beat down on her unzipped top, her hair was cropped, her wages docked. She was like a saxophone, talented fingers could play her tune, the rest just made a noise.The rain beat down on this cake tin town. She was playing her way through plain flour, aiming to be self-raising, with the crumbs of dreams rolling in her mind. She played the flute for recreation, down in the depth of Baker Street Station; she was a tubular bell in an underground network, off the cuff and off the rails. Life was a story going nowhere in particular, with rubbish plots and crazy dialogue. She baked on Sunday and made it with anyone who came by on Monday...

Words by Trev Teasdel