…with the incarnate god in flesh of vice and tantrum at the wheel and the sexy lights of this electric city sliding by its reflection on the rain smear asphalt, the women on the streetcorners hollering their wages so that my wallet starts barking in response jerking me to the dirty kerb by sheer lack of virtue, and the old flesh under young smiles at the wheel wheedles me on with cries of ‘Good ol’ Paradise, see if it’s not possible to egg on for a two for one deal’ or ’That’s living, wahoo, by the very sleeve of your urges!’ to we stumble into a greasy dive jazzy with negros and the drunk mad like ourselves and we lift up a rap between ourselves and a bottle of cheap port to a constellation of cigarette light until the giggle of girls ejects us from the pasteboard door dive snaking hands onto their boisterous rumps bouncing across the cobblestones in the night to the zow and pow of sprung springs under the warm liquid smells of warm flesh juices colliding in some strange where in another weird when…