These Streets...
The many withered wander these streets, day and night. Their faces are willowy and wrinkled. They are hardened, but they look as if they could shatter at any minute. Filling up their bottles with vodka and whiskey; tossing empty bottles of buckfast into dim alleyways.
They are perpetually angry. Following each other drunkenly into the open, all the while arguing empty sentiments with hollow words. Hating each other, it seems they all do.
A twelve year old, wearing a skirt that hardly covers her ass and a top that reveals more skin than most street-wandering whores, sips a bottle of vodka and snorts a line of cocaine off the top of the telephone in a phone booth. Her boyfriend waits close outside smoking a cigarette and, getting passed the bottle, swigs quickly on the vodka, glancing anxiously around for police.
The hardened ones lean on each other in their stumble down the dark street. Still yelling, they fill their water bottles back up with vodka and continue to shout at each other.
At the bottom of a deep stairwell lies a sodden and stained sleeping bag, surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol. Five paces down the road the sight of a similar stairwell gives me deja-vu.
The hardiest are the most fragile. emotionally and physically. They have nothing to lose and so they risk it all, whenever they want. They stumble down the busiest road in Glasgow at noon on a sunny day, chugging from two bottles of lighter fluid. Blood bubbling from their mouth and covering their white track-suits.
I don't know what I'm talking about. I've never been in their shoes. I only know what I've seen.
Some times I make up stories for these people. these people I see wandering the streets every day, looking for trouble to stir up. Where they came from, what they do to get by, why they do what they do. Sometimes when I see the really young ones, I feel like the stories are all right in front of me. There is much I don't see.
A lot comes out in the winter time here. It's dark. dark. dark. dark. and cold. and cloudy and rainy. and the booze flows heavily, like a mountain gorge in the spring.
The streets can be beautiful. busking them makes me feel at home here. Some of these people are gems. The ones who play music here. the ones who have passion and love. They make it all worth it. (not to mention the stories..)
(Sometimes, these dirty streets are filled with... magic)
They are perpetually angry. Following each other drunkenly into the open, all the while arguing empty sentiments with hollow words. Hating each other, it seems they all do.
A twelve year old, wearing a skirt that hardly covers her ass and a top that reveals more skin than most street-wandering whores, sips a bottle of vodka and snorts a line of cocaine off the top of the telephone in a phone booth. Her boyfriend waits close outside smoking a cigarette and, getting passed the bottle, swigs quickly on the vodka, glancing anxiously around for police.
The hardened ones lean on each other in their stumble down the dark street. Still yelling, they fill their water bottles back up with vodka and continue to shout at each other.
At the bottom of a deep stairwell lies a sodden and stained sleeping bag, surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol. Five paces down the road the sight of a similar stairwell gives me deja-vu.
The hardiest are the most fragile. emotionally and physically. They have nothing to lose and so they risk it all, whenever they want. They stumble down the busiest road in Glasgow at noon on a sunny day, chugging from two bottles of lighter fluid. Blood bubbling from their mouth and covering their white track-suits.
I don't know what I'm talking about. I've never been in their shoes. I only know what I've seen.
Some times I make up stories for these people. these people I see wandering the streets every day, looking for trouble to stir up. Where they came from, what they do to get by, why they do what they do. Sometimes when I see the really young ones, I feel like the stories are all right in front of me. There is much I don't see.
A lot comes out in the winter time here. It's dark. dark. dark. dark. and cold. and cloudy and rainy. and the booze flows heavily, like a mountain gorge in the spring.
The streets can be beautiful. busking them makes me feel at home here. Some of these people are gems. The ones who play music here. the ones who have passion and love. They make it all worth it. (not to mention the stories..)
(Sometimes, these dirty streets are filled with... magic)